Donald Trump Edition: How Telltale's Game of Thrones should have ended
by Lucky Sea
Summary: "They're bringing drugs. They're bringing crime. They're rapists. And some of them, I assume, are good people." So began Donald Trump's presidential campaign. During the election, the 3 main candidates for President were teleported to Westeros, in the middle of a war between the the Forresters and Whitehills. In a world where you win or you die, which candidate won?
1. Chapter 1: Your Lord

**AN: Welcome to a crossover fanfiction! At least, I think it counts as a crossover. In this story, the Forresters from Telltale's Game of Thrones(you know, the protagonists who get beaten up so much they make the Starks look unbruised) actually have the balls to stand up to the Whitehills(the jerks trying to kill them). How, you ask? Well, that's why this is a crossover. Because in another world, a certain New York property mogul has been whisked using the dark arts of Forrester magic to head their house. This is how Telltale's Game of Thrones should have ended… if Donald Trump were heading House Forrester.**

 **Game of Thrones Chapter 1 – Your Lord…**

"I want you to knock nicely, I want you to knock nicely!" the self-proclaimed smart guy shouted back at the Whitehill troops and an increasingly incensed Lord Ludd Whitehill. A Whitehill swore vengeance and that spurred his comrades' belligerence up, nearly causing a riot at the gate before Ludd's voice rang out once more.

"I'll give yer one last chance," Ludd threatened, "open the gate for me and my men to judge yours and we'll have a deal."

"No no no no no, excuse me, excuse me," muttered the fat orange-haired man with small hands and the funniest accent all of Ironrath had ever seen, "you had one little boy, trapped between three men with swords and a horse, and you're telling me he killed two of your men?"

Put that way, the shouting from the Whitehills died down. What came next rejuvenated it.

"You think you're big eh, punk?"

More Whitehills headbutting the ironwood gate ensued before Ludd restored order. The Whitehills looked incensed, but the facts were that a gate made of the strongest wood in all Westeros stood between them and this upstart that the Forresters had somehow acquired to represent them in making all their business.

"I want that boy, and I want justice to be done on him, or I'll tear Ironrath to the ground!" Ludd repeated for the thirtieth time that afternoon. Nobody bothered reminding him that the only thing he had torn in recent days was his pants, on account of his increasing waistline.

"Oh yeah? Well come on in then, Gared Tuttle!" replied Donald Trump, and a worried-looking Gared stumbled into view, still clutching his wounded leg. To the horror of the watching Duncan Tuttle, Royland Degore, and Lady Elissa Forrester, Trump ordered Gared to take on the Whitehills all on his own, with only his crutch as a weapon. Gared raised his crutch and thrusted at the Whitehills…

…All through the safety of the gate, of course. The Whitehills screamed and hollered, but it was obvious that the Forresters' new leader wasn't going to give up a thing. As afternoon turned to night and their sworn enemies turned tail back to Highpoint, Lady Elissa Forrester felt just the slightest ease of relief in her heart. Perhaps they could recover from the deaths of Rodrik and Gregor after all.

* * *

The council meeting following the raven warning of Ramsay Snow's imminent arrival:

"My lady, Ramsay Snow will be here in less than a week!" cries the Maester. The small council goes into "oohs" and "ahhhs" before Trump bangs his fist against the table.

"We need just one thing, you know that, and you know what that one thing is? Hmph. Hmm. Yes, just one thing to be beating snow and bolting and white'ills. It's called, what was it, what was it… MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! – um no no wait, I mean, it's called a wall."

The small council all looked rather oddly at Trump, except for Lady Forrester, who placidly put her hand together as if she were conducting some form of prayer.

He continued, "We have a madman who kills women and children and is a bastard trying to come to us and kill our women and our children and make us bastards. He's gonna make our bastards our women(here, the council wondered if Trump had intended to pause between "bastards" and "our") and be chopping off heads and it's going to be bad. But l, I, have a plan and it's gonna be great, I mean it already is but,"

"Sorry to interrupt, but perhaps Lord Ethan should be hearing about this plan," Lady Forrester suggested. This time, it was her turn to have everyone stare at her. It was as if she had invited a preadolescent to discuss murdering the most infamous serial killer in all the North, which of course wasn't quite what they had in mind, was it?

"Alright, you hear me Royland," Trump continued, "you tell everyone here in this castle, that the next time they take a poo or a shit or a crap or whatever you call it, they do it right outside the gate. That'll tell him he's not welcome. That'll tell him he's not welcome!" Everyone in the small council was stunned, as if they had just found the best way to repel a visit by Ramsay Snow.

* * *

 _Less than a week later_

" _Clearly, your shithole of a holdfast is too much for you to keep! I hereby make Ludd Whitehill the owner of all your Ironwood forests!_

 _Signed,_

 _Ramsay Snow"_ read the letter left outside the gate. It was noticeably brown from, cough unknown origins cough, but the footprints outside the gate made it clear that the Boltons were not very happy with the Forresters.

Lady Forrester, Royland Degore, and Duncan Tuttle spent half the day weeping and moaning before Donald Trump awoke and saw to the matter.

"Wait wait wait, a guy who is the bastard of the lord who killed House Forrester's old lord gets to do that? You know, I really don't think his daddy's gonna like him messing around with us. I really don't think daddy bolting's gonna be happy. Let's send a raven to check!" said Trump as he gave a black bird the same letter, albeit with a few minor amendments made.

"Who are you sending that too?" cried the Maester but it was too late, the raven having flown away without its usually courtesy call of "nevermore".

"His daddy, who else?" Trump replied, before settling down to eat lunch.

The letter now read:

" _Clearly, your shithole of a holdfast is too much for you to keep! I hereby make Ludd Whitehill the owner of all your Ironwood forests!_

 _Signed,_

 _Ramsay Snow"_ =Hey bolting, you sure this is your son? Why's he getting to take Forrester ironwood from only the best crafters of ironwood shields? I'm telling you, if we're not happy we're gonna send our shields to the wrong people, and you won't be happy when our shields get to bad people. You wanna stop that? Give us back our wood. All of it.

* * *

The jubilant sounds of cheering in the great hall of Ironrath when the raven returned with the letter was all it took to know that the Ironwood forest was firmly in Forrester hands.

As Donald Trump ate another piece of stale Northern bread and was patted on the back by every member of the Forrester household, and cheered on by the excited smallfolk outside the great hall, he decided now would be a good time to start learning how business in Westeros worked.

 **AN: Next chapter should be out soon! Discover how Trump takes his deal-making to King's Landing as he tries acquiring Highpoint as rental property in Games of Thrones Chapter 2: Has Made a Great Deal!**


	2. Chapter 2: Has Made a Great Deal!-Part 1

**AN: Please review! I do not own the Game of Thrones, and definitely don't own Donald Trump.**

 **Lovin it: He sure will!**

 **Guest: Thank you so much! There's this Game of Thrones video with Donald Trump in it that's just perfect. It's titled Winter is Trumping and I thought it's amazing. I have to check who Chris Rock is though!**

 **Albhwa: It was all part of the plan *sly wink***

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Has Made a Great Deal! – Part 1**

"Hey hey you, I gotta ask, how much, no how much really, do we sell our whatever-you-call-it for? To the boltings I mean." Duncan Tuttle was slightly miffed that the Donald couldn't even pronounce ironwood properly. It had to speak volumes that the brother of a pig farmer could know more than a "really rich guy", as Trump described himself. But the facts were that Donald Trump had just repelled a visit from Ramsay Snow, and made Roose Bolton retract Ramsay's decree of transferring the ownership of the ironwood forest, and boosted the spirits of all the smallfolk. For better or for worse, he was the only man with a solution, and the Castellan of Ironrath had no choice but to follow his orders – and pray to the old gods that he knew what he was doing.

"Ser, we usually sell our ironwood to the Wardens of the North, which has been synonymous with House Stark for millennia. We do make the occasional generous donation to the Night's Watch. Sometimes we offer ironwood to another house that we seek to befriend, like House Glenmore, or we send them to our lords in House Glover. But with all the changes since the Red Wedding, I fear we may have to reconsider our buyers," said Duncan as his speech was cut off by the sound of Royland screaming, "Fetch the Maester! Quickly!" from the courtyard.

The shouting turned into a cacophony of a hundred different voice that greeted the arrival of a battered Rodrik Forrester from a corpse-cart. In the meantime, the Donald considered his business education at UPenn and wondered how much the richest houses of Westeros would pay for the majestic whatcha-ma-call-it… iron would? Ironwood! Those things.

* * *

As Rodrik Forrester in the room beside the Great! Hall(as Trump insisted it to be called) screamed in pain and refused a sip of the milk of the poppy, Trump, Royland, Duncan and Lord Ethan discussed the trivialities of redesigning the sales of the ironwood forest.

"How can we supply traitors with our most precious resource?" Royland raged. Duncan murmured something about loyalty while Royland ranted about well, the lack thereof of the same thing. Lord Ethan looked askance, as if he'd just been taken away from a really intriguing game of hide-and-seek. Which was immeasurably easier than the Game of Thrones, if you asked him.

Trump merely sat and smiled like a huge psychopath staring at small children at Ethan, and very loudly and deliberately coughed. The sentinel and castellan's quarrelling drowned the sound of his cough. Trump coughed again, then repeated it until Ethan wondered if he might be having a case of really bad coughing. Only when Donald's vocal chords were considerably ruined did the other two adults(in name, though not necessarily act) pay attention.

"Alright alright," Trump said before wheezing a bit, "we need something that nobody here as ever thought of. We've been stuck, for a long long time mind you, giving free stuff to rich people who think they're so much better than us. I'm telling you, we can keep giving them stuff but they're going to have to pay for it. A lot to pay for it."

Duncan's cry of protest went unheaded as Trump continued with the long rant that had thrilled his presidential campaign supporters and dismayed both political opponents and his economics professors at the University of Pennsylvania.

"The boltings are going to take our stuff and say it belongs to them because they're our lords blah yadda yadda. And you know what they're going to do? They're going to sell it to rich, fat people," Trump continued, "rich fat people like whoever runs the whole of this place. We're making these things and getting nothing, they're doing nothing and getting everything. This is called a bad deal." Ethan and Royland were nodding eagerly, the simple language transforming complex economics concepts into something more suited to their vocabulary.

"A good deal, is something that I'm going to give you. We're not going to tell people that ironwood shields are just really good shields. We're going to tell them that ironwood shields are so strong and so hard to find, only one house in the whole world can make the one kind of shield that doesn't burn, can't be pierced, and doesn't have insects crawling inside of it. We'll tell them if they bought one of our shields, it'll be so good, so so good, you could stab it everyday until your grandson died and it wouldn't even have a scratch.

"But thing is, it's not free. It's not free no, it's not even cheap. You want the best shields in the world, you gotta pay the best prices in the world. We're going to make it affordable to the very richest houses, but nobody else. And they're going to want to pay because we just had a war, and they're going to be scared of anything sharp. This baby can take anything sharp, and they're gonna love it, but they're going to have to pay." Trump finished, flourishing his tiny hands.

The Great! Hall was in silence for awhile, stunned by the audacity of the plan. Who would ever think of trying to make money off their most precious resource? But it did make sense. Shields were a kind of prestige in Westeros, and House Forrester made the best shields. So if you wanted to show your house was the most prestigious, you'd want to pay for the best shields. Of course, minor houses would never try showing their house was the most prestigious – such things should only be done for the major houses like the Lannisters, who actually had the most money to pay for such shields.

The economics going through Trump's head went, _Ironwood shields best shields ever= Price inelastic demand. Price inelastic=raise prices = only richest houses are willing and able to buy. Sell only for a high price to richest houses= maximum revenue and minimal cost, minimal because friendly relations with buyer. Maximum revenue minus minimal cost= maximum profit._ Ding! This was going to be amazing.

"Tell Rodrik he's the lord of the house now, and don't let any white'ills or boltins come in." the Donald ordered. "And when you get money, you don't sit on it and do nothing. You take the money and buy soldiers. People who can fight. You sit on it with ten men and a wooden wall, I promise you we're dead."

"Where are you going?" Ethan managed to ask as Trump stood up from his chair, strolled to the far end of the corridor, walked out the door and called for a "beautiful, big fat horse".

* * *

As Trump was packing up his tools of negotiations, he noticed that he wasn't the only one packing up his things. Malcolm Bransfield, the brother of Lady Forrester, was already atop his horse when the Donald called for him to explain what he was doing that called for crossing the poo-covered walkway outside Ironrath.

"Lady Forrester has requested me to go to Essos and find Asher, and bring him back to Ironrath with an army, and with Lord Ethan's express permission I've decided to go," explained Malcolm.

Trump's greedy, dollar bill slits for eyes lit up. "Alright son. I got a task for you. You're going to take a good, strong ironwood shield. You're going to make as many deals as possible with the people in Essos, and if they want ironwood shields then they've got to pay upfront. You're going to bring all that lovely money and buy the best people at fighting."

How the eyes of Malcolm Bransfield lit up when he realised the business acumen at play. He was going to go to a different continent and cheat as many people as possible of their hard-earned gold, then use it to pay for the army that the Forresters surely needed.

"And don't give those people who like fighting the gold at the start, or they'll run off with the money. You keep them until we start fighting and winning and beating the white'ills. So while we're winning and winning we let them die first, then nobody is paid!" Trump continued.

Malcolm was about to fall over and faint from the proposed scandal.

"Then we use that money and build, you guess what? What are we going to build? We're going to build…" Trump's voice trailed off as Malcolm Bransfield's sense of Northern honour caused him to faint.

* * *

 _A few minutes later_

"Are you alright, Malcolm?" asked a concerned Duncan Tuttle. It wasn't every day that the castellan of Ironrath came across an unconscious man in the stables, but today was quite the unusual day. Already, the dead heir to of House Forrester had apparently turned up not-quite-so-dead at Ironrath. It was one thing to survive the deadliest wedding staged in over a century, but quite another to survive the weeks-long journey from the Twins to Ironrath on a corpse-cart. Perhaps oddity would be the new normal for the lives of the Forresters.

The poor man could only point a finger in the general direction of the departing Trump.

 _To be continued_

 **AN: It's taken longer than I expected to finish the time-period of the story that covers Episode 2 from Telltale's Game of Thrones, which is the story this is roughly based on. So Chapter 3(but hopefully not Chapter 4) will also have the title "Has Made a Great Deal!". This story is loosely based on the story from Telltale, except that I'm very dissatisfied with the ending and in general the dumb decisions the Forresters make**


	3. Chapter 3:Has Made a Great Deal!-Part 2

**AN: Please read and review! It makes my day when I see a review.**

 **Lovin it: That's absolutely right. The Forresters lacked cunning in the game, which is exactly what Trump's here to solve. They're meant to be a house so powerful, Robb Stark charged them with being the vanguard of the attack on Casterly Rock! This story's going to see a lot more Forrester belligerence.**

* * *

In all her time in King's Landing, Lady Margaery had had the impression that all men, especially Northerners, were either uncouth and truthful or polite and deceiving.

With this orange-haired buffoon in front of her, she discovered that it was quite possible to be both uncouth and deceiving.

"This wood is so strong, you could stick a sword into it and there wouldn't be a screatch. The only thing with screatches on it would be your sword. Oh wait, that's not appropriate."

"That's enough, sir." She interrupted. "You had my handmaiden convince me to grant you an audience just for this joke of a shield?"

Only two days ago, King's Landing had a new rumour – a haughty, fat and arrogant man from the north who claimed to be a representative of House Forrester. He had come with a wagon full of ironwood shields, and had made it clear that he sought an audience with Lady Margaery, since she was a representative of House Tyrell. Unfortunately, he had come at a bad time. Cersei was suspicious of Margaery, knowing fully well that she had been married to the late Renly Baratheon, who had rebelled against Cersei's own late husband Robert Baratheon. In this supposedly private audience, Margaery had been forced to accept the presence of two Lannister guards to oversee their conversation. These two flanked Margaery, who was on one end of an ordinary-looking rectangular table. Mira Forrester, whom she trusted like a younger sister and for whom she would never have granted this audience, sat timidly on her right. And opposite them, on the far end of the table, was the man himself, one Donald of… well, it was curious that he appeared to have a surname without having a house serving the Forresters.

Donald Trump didn't look fazed in the slightest. He coughed into his napkin, whose exquisite Trumpian standards felt had allowed it to survive the weeks-long journey from Ironrath to King's Landing. See, there was something about business that Mr Trump knew very well about. People who wanted to make money liked to think about business like you needed a degree in it. People are _stupid_. Business is all about making a good deal. And today, a good deal was passing off ironwood shields like a near-mythical weapon available only to the richest buyers( _How stupid can people get?_ Thought Trump. _This thing's made from a tree that got chopped down, after all._ ) How would he do this? Simple, if you had read _The Art of the Deal_.

"Listen to me, listen to me. This shield looks pretty brand-new, am I rite? Nah, it isn't. This thing's several hundred years old, it's been hanging about in Eyeronraft for like, a rilly long time. Rilly long, I tell ya. And it still looks more beautiful than my ex-wife." At this, everyone in the room, including the seated Mira Forrester, visibly cringed. Everyone knew that Lady Margaery was widowed, except for the one man who was supposed to not offend her.

"Up north, everyone wants to buy ironwould. But you know whut? It's so strong and so hard, they don't even know how to chop down the ironwool trees! Why'd you think we call it ironwool in the first place? This thing could take an calvary charge and like, not come up with a screatch. Peeple don't know how to get this thing. Dey don't know how to make it gud. Only one house in all of this world knows how to make a near-indestructible, super valuable woud that doesn't break. And that's us. And if you fight a few peeple I'm guessing you want your guys to have the best weapons, am I right?" continued the Donald, flailing a fat finger at the two Lannister guards flanking Lady Margaery.

"These shields _are_ the best weapons out there. When I came in here I saw like a fifteen guys in the street with swords, but without shields! And I'm looking at them, who look exactly like these two by the way, what you going to do when you get stabbed at, huh? Pray to gawd your shiny armor's strong enough? You don't need to pray when you got a Forrester shield, I'm telling ya. They stick their swords into your shield, you can smile as you stick your sword into their heart." finished Trump.

The Lannisters looked strangely excited at the prospect of not worrying about the inadequacy of their armor. Margaery sighed, but the facts were that as attractive as having better protection for the average Tyrell soldier was, the Tyrells were the strongest military power in all of Westeros on the basis of their army size. And buying shields from a northern house, so recently after the war with the North, that would enrage Cersei. Who knew what the queen dowager might do if in a fit of rage? As attractive as the deal was, it wouldn't be good for her standing in King's Landing, and as the ascendant queen her standing and reputation meant everything to her.

"I'm sorry, but House Tyrell cannot at this time make associations to a northern house, even if you were the deviate supply from House Bolton to our benefit," announced Margaery, referencing a previous argument Trump had made. "Please leave."

* * *

Trump kept his face sullen, like he often did in episodes of the Apprentice before firing the contestants. The Lannisters approached him to escort him out of Margaery's chambers, their eyes still suggesting their keen desire to own ironwood shields.

Then the Donald played the trump card.

"I've already talked to the other queen, the one who commands these dudes in red here. She said absolutely, she'd pay a very high price to get all these guys wearing rilly nice shields to add to their rilly nice armor. I'm telling you, she was so pleased to pay what, eight gold draygons for every shield. I'd give them to you if you paid nine per shield, but I guess you don't want it, so come next month all these guys will be having not just the best training and armor and swords in the world, but also the best shields in the world."

Margaery stared at the departing figure of Donald Trump and the two Lannister guardsmen. If Cersei was arming her guardsmen, then she had to be ready to escalate tensions with House Tyrell. But then again, this man seemed to be prone to lying. Did it really matter, though?

Mira began, "I'm so sorry, my lady. My mother told me that this man had just saved our ironwood forests from being controlled by our greatest enemies, so she was certain that we could recover from the losses suffered in the war by having him sell our shields to you. I'm terribly sorry. It was a mistake of judgement on my part."

Margaery silenced her with an upraised hand. She was deep in thought.

It was inconceivable that Donald Trump wouldn't try to leach more money from anyone who could afford it. If the crown bought his shields, House Tyrell would lose while the Forresters and the crown won. If both the crown and Tyrells didn't buy the shields, all would lose, and she knew Mira would be anguished. If the Tyrells bought the shields, then at least the winners of this contest of might would be House Forrester, and House Tyrell. And she knew that from reports of the battles throughout the war, Forrester ironwood shields were incredibly hardy. Ironwood shields would strengthen House Tyrell's armed forces, which had a propensity of being reliant on numbers and supply chains to win a war. Making the individual House Tyrell soldier stronger, even if it was for a high price, was a force multiplier that increased House Tyrell's military strength. And in the Game of Thrones, your cunning and political skills meant nothing without the military strength to enforce it.

"Mira, your apology was unnecessary." Margaery replied, glancing at her handmaiden with a smile.

That night, Trump's letter by raven to Ironrath ended with, " _We're going to get a helluva lot richer."_

* * *

It wasn't until a few weeks later that the first batch of ironwood shields reached Highgarden. From the beaming reports and lavish praise, it was taken for granted that Donald Trump's assertions had proven true after all. The gold dragons had been sent back to Ironrath, and Trump was very pleased with the profits. The Forrester-Tyrell ironwood shields cum gold supply chain worked by sending wagons full of ironwood shields into Highgarden by way of the sea – the Manderlys were reportedly jealous of the quality of the shields. It would arrive and disembark at King's Landing, where Trump would inspect the shields and loudly boast about them wherever there happened to be people in earshot. Then, they were sent to Highgarden by land again. Once the Tyrells had paid their dues, the gold travelled to back to King's Landing, then back over the sea route. Duncan Tuttle had been chosen to ensure that every last gold dragon was accounted for when the ships arrived at White Harbor.

The brilliance of Trump's argument lay in the fact that he _lied_ about the importance of good, sturdy shields. In a war, shields could save your life, while not having one or having an inferior make of shield could end it. But all shields would usually be abandoned under many circumstances, such as if it had been weighed down with arrows that made the shield too heavy to carry. So the ironwood shields _weren't_ the luxury item he claimed it to be, and like any Trump product, was horribly overpriced.

The gold from that first run was already being put to good use – Trump ordered improvements to the wall so that it wasn't a mere palisade, and the small council had agreed. Rodrik Forrester had agreed to southern designs that had the entryway of Ironrath be changed. So instead of a naked gate, the gate was approached by a pathway flanked by stone walls that ran parallel to Ironrath's wall, then turned 90 degrees to the right to approach the gate. So anyone approaching Ironrath would have to turn their right side towards archers on Ironrath's walls, which exposed their unshielded side since most combatants were right handed, and thus would put their shields on their left arm.

Of course, Rodrik was clever, and had had much experience fighting in the south of Westeros. He knew that archers alone were often insufficient to force an invading enemy to retreat before castle walls. So he built a platform over that pathway that would be manned by soldiers pouring boiling oil, torches, and sharp objects on any invader. That pathway rooftop would be reinforced by having direct access to Ironrath's wall, which itself was being upgraded to be higher and wider.

Finally, to protect the new gate, a second, smaller wall would be built using the ample stone near Ironrath. Rodrik envisioned a path of retreat for defending soldiers manning this wall, which would be too tall to climb, yet too short to allow archers a direct line of fire on the defenders of the pathway rooftop and the original wall.

Trump approved of the decision to build a wall.

* * *

 _Some weeks after The Deal_

"I like that guy, your brother. I rilly like that guy." said Donald Trump to Mira Forrester in the latter's room, which they shared in King's Landing. Like many women before her, Mira was quickly discovering that the Donald was prone to indelicate remarks and indiscretions in the bedroom. She'd made a decision to ask Lady Margaery for new rooming arrangements some days back, but she was hesitant on reflecting her distaste for the man who just repelled Ramsay Bolton from Ironrath and secured a trade deal with the Wardens of the South.

Also, there was the matter that Trump's latest remark had suggested he had…exotic tastes.

He pulled a letter from the raven that had just arrived by the window. Then, he sat back on a rocking chair with a glass of wine that… did Sera _share_ Cersei's stolen wine? Where else could it have come from? Whatever. It wasn't her business anyway. Mira tended to her clothes and the crumpled bedsheet before proceeding to leave the room.

And she would have done so without interruption had Donald Trump not just spat crimson liquid onto the bed.

"Sir! Why would you…"

"You gotta look at this babe, you gotta –"

"spit it out like that?"

A brief, awkward silence ensued as the amusement of the formed sentence saw Mira avoid a grin, and Trump gawk at the letter.

"Okay okay. You got to hear me on this one, because I'm not going to repeat myself. I'll say it again, I'm not going to repeat myself…" he repeated, the irony not appearing obvious to him.

"We got a big problem. Your brother, I don't laike him anymore. He says that white'tills just came up our door and knocked very, very impolitely. You know what they said?"

Mira nodded, gesturing him to go on.

"No, you don't . They said, 'We're gonna kick you out of your land no matter what the Boltings say, and we're putting twenty men in your walls'. They were rude. They were very, very rude folks. I don't want no rude men in my walls, by the way."

"So what will you do about it, sir?" Mira asked.

Trump took a pen – erm, quill – and paper and began writing a reply. When he was done, he taught the raven a nasty curse that started with the letter n to replace the more famous "Nevermore" call of mythical ravens.

Mira Forrester looked on curiously as the raven flew off.

"Get me back to Eyeronrad, somehow. I'm going to take some money and buy some mean dudes along the way. We'll show those white'tills what we got. You hear me? We're going to show them what we got!" Trump roared in outrage.

* * *

The raven, flying with a letter in either claw, tried to quell what would in human languages be translated as a laugh. In its left claw was the letter from Rodrik Forrester to King's Landing. In its right was Trump's reply.

The former read,

" _Dear Donald of House Trump,_

 _Ludd Whitehill came to our gates just as we approved the new building plans. He told us he'd take our lands and the ironwood forest against the express orders of Roose Bolton! He said Gryff Whitehill, his fourth-born son, would man a garrison of twenty men within our walls. We're asking every smallfolk to help build the new wall, but it won't be complete in time to fend off the Whitehills. At most, we can build the passageway for the gate and raise our walls, but no more. Also, an informant told me that we have a traitor in our walls. Somebody's been tracking our movements for Ludd. Just today the small council determined that our first objective was to build defenses over feeding the smallfolk, and this informant knew about it. What do we do?_

 _Signed,_

 _Rodrik Forrester"_

And the reply read,

"Dude. It's obviously the Maester. Like, I can be 100% sure it's the Maester. Your castellan would rather his nephew die than let House Forrester suffer. Your arms-master would rather die than let you face harm. Your mother's your mother. The Maester looks like a sly man, you know what I'm saying? It's him. Torture him. I would bring waterboarding, and I would bring a helluva lot worse than waterboarding, on that guy. And keep the gate locked. You have a wall, you keep people out of it with that wall. That's what walls do, got it?

Signed, Donald"

* * *

 **AN: I thought I uploaded this chapter three weeks ago, and only discovered that I didn't today. I'm so sorry for all of you who have been following and wondering where I've been! I fully intend to complete this story, especially before the November elections, and that's a promise!**


	4. Chapter 4: They are not good people

**AN: Fapman: Thanks for the praise!**

 **Timothy Nguyen 73: Thank you!**

 **Lovin it: It's you again, hey there! Yes, he's going to have more hustling, and more than hustling, in the near future.**

 **To everyone who has subscribed, or added this story to your alert list, or just had a passing glance through my words, I thank you. It means so much to me to see people reading and enjoying my work.**

* * *

Highpoint, two months before the Battle of Ironrath

Ludd Whitehill smirked. "I'm not scared of you. You can't do a thing. You Forresters are headed for destruction."

"Not unless the Whitehills push them into it." Stated the balding, bespectacled, white-haired man that had just entered the door behind Rodrik Forrester.

Trump took one look behind him, and their eyes met. Two pairs of eyebrows raised in recognition.

"I think Donald here can agree with me that your lies end today, Whitehill." said Bernie Sanders.

* * *

Two weeks ago, Ironrath

"What did you bloody tell him?!" Donald shouted at Ortengryn, who was not enjoying being strapped to a tree stump lying down and getting waterboarded. Trump had directed the Forrester soldiers to move the former maester of Ironrath from his cell in the dungeons to the Ironwood forest, and taught them the art of modern CIA interrogation techniques.

For the past hour, the former maester had spilled revelation after revelation that seemed to leave the on-watching Rodrik Forrester shaken to his core. Ortengryn claimed to have been sending information to Ludd Whitehill for months at infrequent intervals, and was not actually a maester from the Vale but the second-born son of Ludd Whitehill, Ebbert.

"I can't believe you've been lying to us all this time," Rodrik whispered, his voice tinged with the hurt of the betrayed. The Forrester soldier restraining Orteng - no, Ebbert – raised his left leg and stomped on his right hand. Ebbert Whitehill screamed. The soldier turned to Trump for guidance, and Trump motioned for him to continue the torture. Ebbert screamed again. A raised leg. More screaming again. And again. And again.

The forest was filled with his screams, and Rodrik was mesmerised by it. _Iron from Ice_ , his father had always told him. That was the story of the Forresters, of his family. A house that drew strength from necessity, that became tough like ironwood itself because of the adversity of the climate they lived in. Alongside such toughness came Forrester habits such as minimising creature comforts – his father Gregor had rarely thrown a feast, and lectured Asher often for loving to party, as well as a sense of nobility. Forresters were meant to be honourable, following the tradition of the Starks they served. How was it that Rodrik was now letting a foreign man torture the maester who had served his family for years?

"Now now now, are you going to be good, and tell me precisely what the hell you've been telling your dad?" Ebbert shook his head. Before Trump could order more torture, Rodrik noticed that his lips had been moving slightly, as if he were whispering something that had been drowned out by his damaged vocal chords.

"He's saying something," cried Rodrik, just before his man drew his sword.

"Nah, I can't hear him. He's too soft, you know, and I don't like anything but women soft." Trump responded. "Kill him."

Ebbert's eyes grew wide in terror as Rodrik's soldier prepared an execution blow on the maester.

"Stop! Your lord commands you!" The Forrester soldier pulled back his blow too late. He swerved, and instead of a clean cut through the neck only the tip of the sword opened a long, gaping wound through Ebbert's neck. Rodrik looked at Trump's direction quickly, and he couldn't detect expression on the man's face. Blood flowed through and Ebbert attempted a final scream, but with his windpipe all but crushed he couldn't whisper a thing.

Rodrik watched on in horror as the man who saved his life countless times, with his arcane knowledge of healing, croaked and suffocated on his own blood. Ebbert clawed at his own throat, trying to stem the wound with his shattered hands in vain. The more blood flowed, the more bloody the ironwood stump, the weaker his grip and the faster blood flowed.

Ebbert was reduced to twitching limbs, then tensing muscles as the last drop of life left his glazed eyes.

"No! What by the old gods were you doing?" bellowed the Lord of Ironrath.

His soldier attempted to point at Trump, but the Donald had already left. Worryingly, thought Rodrik, he hadn't even reacted when watching the man die.

Trump was changing House Forrester. And Rodrik feared it was not for the better.

* * *

Ten days ago

That fateful day when Gryff Whitehill had led his twenty men into Ironrath and occupied it, Rodrik knew catalysed his loss of power. His mother, Lady Elissa, chose to send a raven to Trump in King's Landing to call for help. That man was good at provoking emotions, and striking deals. Deals especially. But what disturbed Rodrik was how much of Ironrath's day to day activities that man had managed to take over. As soon as he returned to Ironrath he begun daily speeches to both the soldiers and the smallfolk, supposedly to encourage them.

The effect was nothing short of terrifying. The typically content and hardy Northerners had become rabble, screaming and shaking with vigour. Trump said things like, "We're gonna build a wall so high, they can't see the top of it" or "They're bad people, they find you, they're going to chop your heads off, so you chop their heads off first. It's that simple!" And the Forresters had cheered. Royland cheered. Talia cheered. Even little Ryon had been swayed. Of course, the Whitehills kept trying to disperse them, but the resistance and hatred the smallfolk showed was incredible. Jeering, shouting, and stares nearly escalated into outright violence several times. It was as if Trump had unlocked something in the smallfolk that led them to hold their own lives in contempt.

And that was the least of it.

The other day, his youngest brother had asked Rodrik about why Robb Stark had lost the war. And why Eddard Stark had gotten himself executed by King Joffrey.

"If we weren't stupid, we could have won the war!" His youngest brother had said, still playing with his toys. "If I were Robb, I would have marched on Casterly Rock and killed everyone."

"Why do you think so?" Rodrik had asked. He wished he didn't.

Ryon's face was a cross of rage, pleading, and mourning.

"If Robb Stark hadn't lost the war, Father would still have been alive! You wouldn't have been a cripple! If we weren't stupid, we wouldn't be scared of the Whitehills! Donald is right, we need to start building a better wall. That way, when they come for us we'll be winning and winning and winning..."

"Stop it, Ryon!"

"We were winning, weren't we? We won every battle, but we were betrayed and now Father's dead. The Freys killed him. Traitors! I wish I could kill them! I... I wish I could see them all die!"

"Ryon!"

"Don't you see, Rodrik?" Ryon looked at him through tears in his eyes. "Our honour didn't mean anything. We were honourable, and we lost. Trump is right. We don't need honour. We don't need the old gods. All we need to do is not be stupid, believe in ourselves, and we will win. And when we win, we will... we will... we will win, win, always win..."

Rodrik had explained that Stark couldn't have predicted that he would be betrayed the way he was at the Red Wedding. But Ryon's angry eyes and balled fists told him he had not swayed his brother. For all his talk, Rodrik couldn't disprove the facts.

That the Lannisters, Freys, and a coalition of treacherous, vile men had beaten the good, honourable people like the Starks and Forresters. That being honourable proved a weakness that had been exploited again and again. Was the solution Trump, then? If being dishonourable was the only way to allow a house whose identity was founded on upholding its honour to survive, would that house be better off not existing?

Lord Gregor would have said yes. Honourable, to the death. That was his father. Rodrik wasn't sure he would be any different, and it scared him that he could be making the mistakes that led to the downfall of House Forrester.

Trump had pulled the maester in for "questioning" the day he returned to Ironrath. A maester entered the ironwood forest, Ebbert Whitehill's corpse left it.

Rodrik had thought that Trump would confront the Whitehills immediately, but he didn't. Trump waited. And waited. And waited.

* * *

On the fourth day, his daily speech sparked the conflict.

On an upraised podium overlooking the crowd of smallfolk and soldiers who had stopped their daily business to hear him, stood Donald Trump.

"People out there are dying. Our people. Our people have been dying ever since we lost the war. We lost, because we were stupid. We trusted bad people and now our people die. They're getting killed in their farms, they're getting killed in their homes, and right now they're about to be getting killed right here!"

Screams of outrage from the smallfolk as the Donald pointed his right index finger accusingly at the Whitehills.

"Shut your bloody mouth!" replied Gryff Whitehill, but Trump interrupted him.

"The White'ills want you dead. They see your money, they'll take it. They see your family, they'll take them! Like it or not, folks, war is coming. And when we build that wall, we'll be..." At this he paused, and let the crowd speak.

"Winning and winning and winning..." chanted smallfolk, Forrester and soldier alike.

"They're going to pay. They'll be sorry they ever hurt us, because we're going to hurt them,"

"So bad!" replied the crowd in unison.

At this, the Whitehills prepared to draw their swords, and so did the Forrester troops. But Donald Trump was not done yet.

"But look at them, I mean, they're behind our wall! That is soo wrong. We want White'ills outside our walls so they can't come in. And if they're inside, then we throw them out! Whit'ills out! Whit'ills out!"

Rodrik Forrester looked on in horror as everyone, the smallfolk, the Forrester soldiers, and even his mother and siblings began taking up Trump's chant.

"Whit'ills out! Whit'ills out! Whit'ills out!"

"Maintain order!" roared Gryff, and every Whitehill soldier drew his sword. At that exact moment, the _twangs_ of bowstrings were heard. A Whitehill crumpled to the ground as the arrows ripped through his thighs, the ruined muscles causing his frame to fall. One after another, Whitehill after Whitehill fell.

"Whit'ills out! Whit'ills out! Whit'ills out!"

The enraged Forrester mob charged the Whitehill soldiers. Every Whitehill soldier faced down 3 Forresters whilst an arrow piercing at least one of his legs. The surprise arrow attack gave the Forresters the advantage, and many Whitehills were pushed to the ground, then stomped upon where they lay.

A band of men bearing both sword and bow, clad in orangish-brown garments emerged from the corners of the buildings around the podium and entered the fray. From their swordplay and footwork Rodrik could tell that these were well-trained fighters, and they suppressed any attempts the Whitehills could have made at retreating.

Violently suppressed.

One Whitehill screamed as his shoulder was dislocated as one man brought him to the ground, then wrapped his body around one arm and used his torso to dislocate his opponent's shoulder in an arm bar.

Another Whitehill tried to resist by raising his hands to protect himself. His attacker responded by viciously kicking him in the hamstring, swinging his whole body violently to gain momentum. The Whitehill was kicked clean off the ground and crashed down to earth dangerously on his neck.

Once the last Whitehill, the massive brute who served as Gryff's lieutenant, was "suppressed", Trump walked over to one of the orange-brown clad warriors and patted him on the back.

"You did a wonderful, wonderfull job. I loved every moment of it!" The Donald was saying. The auburn-haired warrior, who was oddly enough the only one of the strange warriors who failed to wear a helmet, smiled gratefully. He then turned to Rodrik and addressed him by name.

"Rodrik, do you recognise me?" The auburn man winked.

Rodrik tried to jog his memory, but he had no clue about which of the many men he had fought alongside this particularly warrior was. Was he at the Twins? Or perhaps one of the detachments sent to retake Winterfell?

"My apologies, but I don't. You fought in the war?"

"I'm Arthur, Elaena's little brother. You don't remember?"

"Quiver! Gods, you've grown." Now he remembered. He had last met Arthur Glenmore five years ago. The young boy had been called Quiver back then, partly because of his love for archery(although passion hardly translated into skill), partly because he was a bit of a coward.

"It's Arthur now," Arthur replied. He had grown much indeed. Not just in stature, Rodrik noticed, but also as a man. The old Quiver let himself be bullied and hid behind his older sister, the new Arthur commanded confidence and respect.

"And who are these men?" Rodrik asked.

"They're my father's elite guard. I'll explain later. Is there someplace quiet where we can go?"

Rodrik pointed at the Great Hall.

"We can talk there."

He started ambling over there, since walking was still impossible with the condition of his right leg. Suddenly it crossed his mind that he had yet to give orders as to what to do with the Whitehill men.

"Take them to the cells! Say it with me folks, to the cells! To the cells! To the cells!"

Rodrik took long enough to enter the Great Hall to know that the chanting lasted until every last Whitehill prisoner was locked up.

* * *

Arthur Glenmore explained to Rodrik that a month ago, not long after his sister came back to Ironrath following her meeting with Rodrik to reaffirm their mutual commitment to their marriage, Ludd Whitehill had stormed into Rillwater Crossing and demanded Elaena marry Gryff Whitehill. Threatening to destroy the Glenmores if Lord Glenmore refused, Ludd Whitehill had the Elaena's and Arthur's father accept the forced terms, in spite of Elaena having already been betrothed to Rodrik Forrester.

"That's ridiculous! Your father accepted my suit two years ago!" Rodrik raged.

"Father acted the bloody coward," replied Arthur. "I can't believe it myself!"

"This is expansionism on Whitehill's part, and make no mistake about it. He's pouncing on our wounds after the war." Rodrik continued. "The things he's been doing; trying to take over my ironwood forest, putting a Whitehill garrison inside Ironrath, demanding Elaena's hand in marriage for Gryff even when she's about to marry me, it's not a normal thing for a lord to do. It's conquest. He's trying to take over our houses without war, and he can do it because he knows we're not strong enough."

"That's why my sister asked me to accompany her to Ironrath. She thought you'd be able to help. I'm glad it worked."

Rodrik paused, turned, and looked at Arthur dead in the eyes.

"I helped?"

"You didn't?"

"Arthur, I didn't even know what you were doing here. I didn't even recognise you! Who let you into Ironrath?"

Now it was Arthur's turn to be confused.

"You did."

"Fine, maybe that was the wrong question. Who used my name to prepare that ambush on the Whitehills?"

Arthur paused, and scratched his chin meaningfully.

"You know that man? The one with the weird accent? I see few foreigners at Rillwater Crossing but I've never heard anyone speak quite like him."

Rodrik sucked in a deep breathe of dread. The Great Hall was suddenly silent. The only noise around emanated from the walls, in the direction of the dungeons, where something akin to wails could be heard. Finally, Rodrik spoke.

"Thank you Arthur. When will your sister arrive?"

"She's coming from the ironwood grove. Should be here soon. Shall I give you two some privacy?"

"That would be great of you, thank you." Rodrik replied. Arthur grinned, winked, then turned and walked out the door, slamming it shut behind him. Rodrik found a high chair that didn't cause his injured leg extreme pain from the exertion of sitting on it, and lost himself in his thoughts. He thought of the days when he was still a child, playing in the Great Hall with Asher and Mira. That was before Ethan, Talia, and Ryon were born. So long ago. He thought of the many moments he spent with Elaena as a child. As the firstborn son, Rodrik got favouritism like no other from his parents, and his father always took him to his meetings with other lords, believing rightly that his son and heir should know the opponents he might face someday.

Rodrik watched his father greet their lords the Glovers of Deepwood Moat, drink with the other Northern Houses like the Glenmores that House Forrester were friendly with, and nearly come to blows several times with the Whitehills. Rodrik also spent much time talking to the other high-born children. Gwyn Whitehill, and her siblings in general, were insufferable when they were younger, but Gwyn had put that behind her. The other Whitehills, not quite.

It was also amongst those many moments that Rodrik had met Elaena Glenmore. By then, he had understood that some houses were traditionally friendly with the Forresters, and others weren't. To honour the favours and bonds of friendship committed in winters past, it was looked down upon to befriend children from houses that were enemies of your own. But somehow he had forgotten that when he and Elaena first met. For children of that age, they became fast friends, playing for many hours in Rillwater Crossing, and then again when the Glenmores visited Ironrath. Arthur had been so young, Lord Glenmore didn't bring him for fear that the cold weather would make the boy ill.

Two warm hands wrapped themselves around Rodrik's shoulders.

"Elaena...?" Rodrik's question was cut off by feminine lips meeting his own. He didn't need to complete his question anyway. Her smell, her touch, it _was_ Elaena. And Rodrik knew in that moment that they were destined for each other.

* * *

A raven had reached Ironrath two days ago, inviting the Forresters to a formal dinner-cum-meeting at Highpoint.

" _We want to discuss business, and your terms of surrender,"_ Talia read out.

Trump was furious. Absolutely hopping furious.

"No, you hear me, no. You can't not declare war and win a war, okay? You go to war, get your butt kicked, and surrender. You don't go to war, you don't get your butt kicked, you don't surrender. We are not surrendering. We are not surrendering. We are going to win. We are going to get a deal that means we win, whether they like it or not. And if they don't like it then they can't do anything about it because they can't invade us! We got a new wall! Nobody's got a newer, better wall than us!"

Indeed, the upgrades outside Ironrath were taking place. The secondary wall was all but built, and the "Passage of Death" that was the only pathway for an attacker to cross from the gate of the first wall to that of the second one was also finished. More difficulty lay in making the passage as deathly as possible. Spikes, spears, burning oil, and traps or projectiles of every kind were lined up to reinforce the

He gathered Rodrik, Elissa, Royland, Arthur and the Glenmore guards and rode for Highpoint as soon as possible.

Ludd Whitehill did little to please Trump's mood.

"Let's see you bend the knee to me, Rodrik!" He began as soon as he came, which took an incessantly long amount of time. Ludd had brought the Forresters into a hall with a second floor where a dozen Whitehill guards, armed with crossbows and fully armoured, were stationed. Beside Ludd sat his daughter Gwyn, who earlier had welcomed the Forresters, but left them to look for her father when he failed to turn up on time. The Forresters were made to wait for several long minutes that reminded Rodrik too much of the Red Wedding.

Trump was up on his feet before Rodrik could even respond.

"You stupid, Whit'ill shit! You are a stupid, fat, ugly person, okay?"

"Forrester, don't overextend my patience," his host warned.

Trump continued, "You are so stupid, you sent twenty of your guys into our walls and called it conquering. You didn't even have the balls to go to war, did everyone get that? He did not even have the balls to go to war."

"Donald, you have to stop," Rodrik interrupted as Whitehill seethed, but Trump went on.

"And you know where your guys are now? Yes? No? Anybody? They're in our prison, and it's horrible there. The cells they're in? It's smelly, it's small, it's a bit like your pants that way. We made it suck so bad for them, and your sun, so so bad."

"You imprisoned Gryff? My flesh and blood?" Ludd Whitehill shouted incredulously, as if he didn't believe what he was hearing.

"We want a guarantee that House Whitehill will stay off Forrester land, and hand over all the ironwood you have already chopped down. Otherwise, Gryff's well-being is at stake." Elissa Forrester continued.

"What's the deal going to be, Whit'ill? I'm warning you, this is the best, best deal you'll ever get. You're not getting a better one. No, you're not getting a better one." Trump rose and waved his hands around.

Ludd Whitehill smirked. "I'm not scared of you. You can't do a thing. You Forresters are headed for destruction."

"Not unless the Whitehills push them into it." Stated the balding, bespectacled, white-haired man that had just entered the door behind Rodrik Forrester.

Trump took a look behind him, and their eyes met. Two pairs of eyebrows raised in recognition.

"I think Donald here can agree with me that your lies end today, Whitehill." said Bernie Sanders.

"Who are you?" replied every Forrester in the room simultaneously. The Whitehill crossbowmen raised their weapons at Sanders's chest. The old, balding man remained unfazed.

"'Who I am does not matter.' That is something that everyone says in Westeros. Smallfolk are killed by soldiers. Soldiers belonging to poor, powerless lords are killed by soldiers belonging to rich and powerful lords. Soldiers belonging to rich and powerful lords are killed by soldiers belonging to other lords, who try to usurp power. Lords, small and great, kill each other for power. In Westeros, it does not matter who you are. You all risk dying, every day."

"At least let the Forresters die first!" shouted Ludd Whitehill. Before the Forresters could retort, Sanders continued.

"We've let too many people die. The North lost countless sons in war, countless more from poor medicine, lack of food, warm homes, hygienic living conditions, and clean drinking water. Every day, Northern mothers die in childbirth because they have no midwife to help them. And every day, a starving Northmen has to break his code of honour to feed his loved ones, many times at the expense of himself.

"I put to you that going to war and taking another empty castle is not worth the husbands, sons, fathers that will be lost. War is not the way to resolve disputes, and it should never be."

"You think you know my people better than I do?" growled Ludd Whitehill, but his soldiers already looked uneasy. A few on the roofs had lowered their crossbows.

Sanders shook his head.

"I don't." He conceded. Jeering started from a Whitehill, but he continued, "But your people know themselves, and what they lacked. And what I'm telling you today is everything they have been telling me themselves. The North, all of the North, has failed its people. We have forgotten to feed hungry mouths."

Bernie Sanders raised his head, and looked at the crossbowmen on the second floor. Everyone followed his gaze.

"Have any of you got family?"

Exchanged glances, some nodding of heads.

"Then you must know that it is not easy to feed them. Did all of you want to be soldiers, all your lives? To take a sword and cut throats with it, or risk dying and leaving your parents childless?"

One crossbowman swallowed. All of them had left their weapons by their sides.

"We can give you a better life than serving until the day you are violently killed. We can give your children a better life than starving until the next meal. But it is not possible when you are at war!"

"We war because we're strong!" shouted one Whitehill, but his fellows shot dirty looks at him.

"I don't doubt you are, but you are a powerfully built and healthy young man. What about the women and children, who have been taught to stay at home and depend on the men for protection? What about the sick or the wounded? What about orphans? Who do they have to provide for them? No one! No one provides for the sick, the wounded, the orphans, or the women and children, if their men are not around." Sanders took a deep breath, before expanding his diaphragm suddenly.

"And when you've lost three thousand lives at the Red Wedding, there are many, many households without men around!"

"Get him out of here!" screamed Ludd Whitehill, reaching for his sword. His soldiers didn't even move their hands to the hilts of their weapons. Ludd drew, and raised it, only to find that not a single man had followed his orders.

"If you..."

"Shut up!"

"Father, you need to calm down!"

That was Gwyn. She restrained her father by grabbing the hilt of his sword with one hand, and placed the other hand on his chestplate.

"Let him talk." Ludd Whitehill growled in fury, but seemed to resist escalating the tension once more.

"There is a shield there, outside the door." Bernie Sanders pointed in the general direction of the opened door. "It has the crest of both House Forrester and House Whitehill."

"Our houses were close once," Gwyn supplied.

"Hear this young woman speak the truth!" Sanders said. "The strength of the wolf is the pack, and to survive the coming winter together when both houses have been ravaged by war, Houses Whitehill and Forrester must coexist. We must rekindle the bonds of the pack, or starve when the snow comes."

With that, Sanders turned and left, gesturing for the Forresters to follow him. Ludd Whitehill pointed towards the back of Sanders, then pointed at one of his soldiers to show the old man the way out. The soldier turned quickly to attention, but it did not escape his attention that he was lifting one hand to his face to wipe his tears.

* * *

As they passed through the winding corridors and staircases of Highpoint, Sanders didn't say a single word to Donald Trump. Neither did Trump say a word to anybody. In fact, no one said a word as the Forrester delegation was escorted out of Highpoint.

Only when they were safely out of the gates of the seat of the Whitehills did Bernie Sanders speak.

"I meant every word that I said back there. We need peace. Both Forresters and Whitehills cannot want war. Ludd Whitehill is an angry man who misunderstands much and thinks he is easily misunderstood. He responds to negotiations with threats because he's gotten his way by doing that all his life.

"Right now, all he wants is his son Gryff back. If we hand him over, we can survive this."

"We? If you're part of us, then why were you with the Whitehills?" Rodrik demanded, but Trump interrupted him.

"There's not going to be a Gryff Whit'ill to give back."

"What are you saying?" cried Rodrik and Elissa all at once.

Trump paused for a moment.

"I'm saying Gryff Whit'ill is very, very not alive."

* * *

Sneak preview of Chapter 5: "Delete your account"

"If we are going to war, then we are asking our men, our brothers, and our sons to return home to us in caskets," cried Bernie Sanders.

Gared Tuttle was unmoved.

"I survived the Red Wedding." The Forrester squire grips his sword hilt tighter with the pain of the memories of that night. "I saw men of the North kill men of the North. If we don't fight, then they'll kill us."

"But we can't think of just ourselves," said Ethan Forrester. All heads turned to him. "Our smallfolk already don't have enough to eat because we can't feed them, or pay them. If there is war then they'll take their chances and flee Ironrath. And the Whitehills will burn down all our farms! We'll never survive the coming winter."

"All the more why we fight now," his mother replied. "I've seen what happens when men are not willing to do everything it takes to survive."

"The Whitehills already want war no matter what we do." Royland Degore, standing behind the gathered Forresters, pointed out.

"Then we negotiate! We look for a solution that will please every side! We end the bloodbath by not spilling blood!" countered Sanders. He raised a letter in his hand. There was a curved, elegant handwriting on it with the Forrester seal at the bottom. "Duncan and Mira in King's Landing have both told me that we risk destroying the ironwood trade if we go to war. No rational leader, no one in the right frame of mind, can insist on war when presented with a better solution.

The uproar at the table took a sudden silence. Taking it as a sign of approval, Sanders continued.

"Give me one good reason why the Whitehills won't accept a deal that will make both parties better off."

"Ludd Whitehill wants to kill us." Now it was Talia's turn to speak.

"Don't you see? He doesn't want ironwood. Or our servitude. Or Ironrath. He wants us dead. All of us. Everything else he's been demanding is a facade so that he can get what he wants. And he wants all of us dead."

* * *

 **AN: For extra Trump-ian flavour, I've begun studying Trump's mannerism in speaking. Hope you enjoyed it! The next update may take longer(I know I update very slowly, sorry!) because I have exams, but no worries, we will finish this story, and before the elections!**

 **To make up for that, I've given a sneak preview at the 5** **th** **chapter to whet your appetite.**

 **Because Telltale's Game of Thrones itself was 6 episodes long, and I intended to mostly follow the pattern of the story, this story has only two more story chapters ahead of it, though I may dedicate another chapter to a final AN(I've heard this is illegal though, can anyone clarify?). However, these two are going to be monstrously long, likely to be longer than anything I've ever written before. This should be fun!**


	5. Chapter 5: Delete your account

**AN: Rereading the first chapter of this fanfic, as well as the videos a Youtuber posted of this, makes me recall just how salty I was with the ending of Telltale's GOT. Sorry to all my readers for the extended delay in chapters, but I promise this chapter and the next will be** _ **amazeeng**_ **and they will be** _ **so beeg you can't get enuf of it.**_

"Donald, everything we promised them rested on a fair exchange of prisoners!" cried Bernie Sanders.

"Why wasn't I told of this?" demanded Rodrik. "What are we going to do now then?"

"We're goin' to give them a daed dude, the Whit'ills ain't gonna notice, cos they're dumb, and we're smart. Some of them are daed, by the way."

Rodrik threw his cane, and shouted. "You're condemning us to war!"

"All hopes for peace has not been extinguished. We must exhaust every peaceful method before considering war as an option," Bernie Sanders added.

"Hey old guy, quieten down there fer just a while, okay? I know what I'm doing, I know what I'm doing. Now! They're dumb, we're smart, we're gonna go to war, and we're gonna win, and we're gonna win bigly cos I just built a beeg faet wall, and made our other not-so-big wall, even bigger. You just ask my ex-wives, I'm good at making things bigger. That's why I divorced them, y'know."

"You're crazy! I should have throw you out of Ironrath ages ago!" shouted Rodrik, who turned away. To his surprise, his mother put a hand on his shoulder. "Donald has made the right choices for our house." She affirmed.

"We must consider a better alternative! If it costs us lives, it is not the best solution! If House Forrester ends up going to war, it is not the best solution! The best solution is peace, between Ironrath, and Highpoint!"

"No Bernie, no, listen. What I did, I didn't let any of them alive. Got it? I waterboarded them, then I made them talk, then I made them dead."

The squabbling between Trump and Sanders stayed strangely reminiscent of certain Presidential debates, while Rodrik was subjected to Lady Forrester's assertions that going to war, after the War of the Five Kings, was the right way forward for their house.

Behind them, Royland shook his head. "It's going to be a long way back to Ironrath," he mumbled.

* * *

A few days later, Ironrath

"It's settled. Donald settled it for us. We're going to war." Said Elissa Forrester.

"If we are going to war, then we are asking our men, our brothers, and our sons to return home to us in caskets," cried Bernie Sanders.

Gared Tuttle was unmoved.

"I survived the Red Wedding." The Forrester squire grips his sword hilt tighter with the pain of the memories of that night. "I saw men of the North kill men of the North. If we don't fight, then they'll kill us."

"But we can't think of just ourselves," said Ethan Forrester. All heads turned to him. "Our smallfolk already don't have enough to eat because we can't feed them, or pay them. If there is war then they'll take their chances and flee Ironrath. And the Whitehills will burn down all our farms! We'll never survive the coming winter."

"All the more why we fight now," his mother replied. "I've seen what happens when men are not willing to do everything it takes to survive."

"The Whitehills already want war no matter what we do." Royland Degore, standing behind the gathered Forresters, suddenly said.

"Then we negotiate! We look for a solution that will please every side! We end the bloodbath by not spilling blood!" countered Sanders. He raised a letter in his hand. There was a curved, elegant handwriting on it with the Forrester seal at the bottom. "Duncan and Mira in King's Landing have both told me that we risk destroying the ironwood trade if we go to war. No rational leader, no one in the right frame of mind, can insist on war when presented with a better solution.

The uproar at the table took a sudden silence. Taking it as a sign of approval, Sanders continued.

"Give me one good reason why the Whitehills won't accept a deal that will make both parties better off."

"Ludd Whitehill wants to kill us." Now it was Talia's turn to speak.

"Don't you see? He doesn't want ironwood. Or our servitude. Or Ironrath. He wants us dead. All of us. Everything else he's been demanding is a facade so that he can get what he wants. And he wants all of us dead."

Even Bernie Sanders didn't have a ready counter to that. For all the months he had spent at Highpoint, something he could not overlook was that Ludd Whitehill was a simplistic, one-dimensional man. He loved his family, all vices, and hated the Forresters. It took a month before he would allow Sanders to discuss equal treatment between smallfolk who had served the Whitehills for more than a decade, and those who hadn't. It would probably take a year before he could talk about the rights of young people to not be forced into arranged marriages.

Talia continued, every word letting slip the hatred she felt.

"Ludd Whitehill took advantage of our loyalty to the Starks when we lost our men, _and my father_ , at the Red Wedding! We nearly lost Rodrik too! He, he tried taking our Ironwood forests while Ethan was lord. Don't you remember? Then he sent Gryff over, trying to treat us like prisoners in our own home! What do you think is next?" Her eyes narrowed.

"He was trying to kill us. To kill off House Forrester, and give Ironrath to his sons." Lady Forrester replied. "I watched my father's house fall during the war."

A quiet hush followed. Everyone looked towards Lady Forrester, or the floor, unsure of whether it was better to ask her to continue or to move back to the discussion at hand.

"It all started because we were loyal to the Targaryens." Elissa continued. "Not a popular opinion to begin with, given that the North only bent the knee because of the dragons, and by then dragons were a distant memory. But once Robert Baratheon began his rebellion, he gave many Northern lords reason to go to war. Enemies, rivals whose deep-seated feuds were never healed, banded together and struck out against our family. Rallying under the banner of rebellion, they took our lands and murdered our people. They were more numerous, and more powerful. The tide was turning against the Targaryens, but my father remained steadfast in his vows."

She closed her eyes, and to the wonder of the rest of the room her face distorted its expression as various jaw, cheek, and brow muscles contorted into varying degrees of rage, pain, grief, and sorrow.

"I have had decades to reflect on where it all went wrong for our family. And even today, the reasons I give as to exactly why we lost change as fast as gossip travels. But some truths are undeniable." Her expression regained its stoic look.

"We should have bent the knee to the rising power, the Starks, as soon as we could. My father thought the rebellion would be crushed within months, but he was wrong. That led to countless accusations of our supposed treachery, and other houses looked on going to war with our family as a badge of honour. Worse, we underestimated how morbid the hatred the other houses bore us were. Houses who previously had lukewarm, or even friendly relations with us declared war. We had the numbers to contest any house in the North save the Starks, Karstarks, Manderlys and Boltons at one point. But we stood no chance against so many at once. In the early days of the rebellion, when it still looked bright for the Targaryens, we should have crushed our greatest enemies and cowed the rest from attacking us. But my father kept seeking a diplomatic solution until we all knew a diplomatic solution was the only way we would survive. And so we died." Elissa finished.

"Mother, do you see... similarities? Between our house and yours?" Talia asked.

A pained look on Lady Forrester's face was the answer.

It was instead Gared who replied.

"Talia, my sister was only eight. A little girl perhaps half your height. She came to Ironrath once, and she told me she thought you and Mira were pretty. The Whitehills showed no mercy to her, or my father, when they attacked our farm. If that doesn't tell you something about what the Whitehills can do, I don't do what does."

Royland began to speak.

"To add to Lady Forrester's and Gared's experiences, what only I amongst everyone in this table understand is that the state of war, to even attempt going into it as a soldier, requires a certain state of mind. You who live nestled up in safety might call it sadism. Or barbarism. I call it survival. In all the mock trainings I run for our men, none of it is truly war. In my sparring, you clinch, you cross swords, you throw each other to the ground. But in war, you bite, you gouge each others' eyes out, you kick them in the balls. You do anything you can, as a soldier, to survive. And you have to do this, so that your lord can gain power. All fanciful politics you see in King's Landing come down to how strong you'll be in war. The stronger your army and your people are, the more influence you have because your threats work. And that's how the North resisted the Andals for centuries. We made ourselves strong, and made them fear war with us. But not many lords would openly say the reason they follow you is that they can't kill you. Well, the Whitehills maybe. But we need a leader who understands that. Unfortunately, Ethan, you have yet to learn that. Ludd Whitehill's aggression in the face of your weakness was to be expected, no matter how much you tell yourself it was nobility."

"That is why after news of the Red Wedding appeared, when I heard of a master businessman wandering the outskirts of Ironrath, surprising smallfolk with his mastery of deal-making and harsh temperament towards people, I invited him into our house. And I talked to him. I saw in him the will to do anything it took to win. To survive.

"Every night when I pray to the old gods at the weirwood, I ask for someone to rescue out house. Without Gregor, your father and the love of my life, I don't think we can survive. Not as a winter as cold and long as the Long Night approaches. Not with the Starks gone. But the old gods answered my prayers, and so this man came to our house. We now know him as Donald Trump. He understands the true nature of this world, even if he says he doesn't come from this one. He understands that the hearts of men are dark and anyone would come to our beds and kill us if it meant he would gain, and that if we played fair we'd be dead." Elissa said

Ethan looked curious. "Mother, you prayed and the old gods answered? Just like that? Who is Donald Trump? What's his motive for doing this? Ser Sanders, you too. You said you know him. How did the two of you get here?"

"I don't know how he got here except by the powers of the old gods, and neither does he." She admitted. "But he is the right man for the job. Of that much, I am sure."

Bernie Sanders clenched his lower jaw as he answered Ethan's question. "I... I am not sure myself. It was the California primary. I'd staked everything on winning California, and the vote counts were going in. We were losing in so many districts, I knew Clinton would be the nominee. I remember... looking at my wife, talking to my staff. Then I was standing outside Highpoint. I outran a woman on a pony... Gwyn Whitehill, I think, and the Whitehills took me in because Ludd wanted to know the secrets of health in old age."

"What did you tell him?" asked Talia.

Sanders shrugged. "I ran cross-country in college, never took a day off while at work. It's hard to be so truthful but Ludd's just not going to live very long, with that beer belly of his."

A laugh sounded around the table.

* * *

The table was quiet again. Ethan shook his head, reeling from the words spoken by his mother, Royland, and Gared. Talia looked upset, the explanation as to why what Trump did _worked_ tossing her mood into melancholy. The spirit of the late Gregor Forrester hung about the room. A noble man. An honourable man. And a dead one.

A loud knocking came from the door to the Great Hall, and all of a sudden Trump and a wall of men armed with spears, forks, and a litany of other pole-arms walked in. A deadly silence. For a tenuous minute Ethan wondered if Trump had turned traitor.

Then the men raised their weapons and brought it down on the floor.

"We serve House Forrester!" shouted one of them. "The North Remembers!" called out another.

"Iron from ice! Iron from ice! Iron from ice!" chanted all of them. Between their ranks the men parted to let through Donald Trump.

"Alright boys, that guy there's yer new lord, I want you all to listen to him, very well, okay?" Trump said, pointing at Rodrik. "Now get out and form up outside the Hall. I want everyone shouting 'Iron from ice', got it?"

The sellswords, all fifty of them, marched out. Donald Trump walked towards Rodrik, motioning at the Forresters to leave them. "Come on now, move along, chop chop. Fifty men, people, fifty good men. I heard twenty good men can do a lot, these guys can do even more." he said.

Talia frowned as her mother pushed Ethan and her from their seats, and into their bedrooms. Gared and Royland followed the sellswords out of the Great Hall, leaving Trump, Sanders, and Rodrik alone.

Trump waited until the last door had been shut before he began speaking.

"These people," he started, "don't know much about fighting. They're just some other guy's people who didn't have enough to eat, so they came here. Now, we don't have much to eat either, but we do have a heck of a lot of money from that trade deal. We can buy food for them to eat, of course, but who wants that? Also, I'm spending everything on the wall. So these guys ain't goin' to be eating anything. And once they realise that, they'll be so pissed, holy hell you'll never see a thing like that in your life. So we gotta be smart.

"When the Whitehills come and fight us, I'm going to send these guys first so they can all die."

Sanders shook his head. "Donald is wrong. These sellswords don't want coin. They need it to service basic necessities for themselves. Basic necessities, that Ironrath can offer! A place to live! A lord to protect them! A job to earn money from! Lord Rodrik, you can provide all these things for them! Just accept an oath of fealty from them, and you'll get fifty loyal men, without paying for it."

Trump snapped his fingers as if he missed something.

"Never thought I'd agree with you on this one, Bernie, but this is actually a gud deal. Like, for once you've made a good deal." Trump said, with a tinge of admiration in his voice.

Rodrik ignored his words. "Never mind that. We need to finish building the wall, making the traps, and I need to meet with Asher. I'll see their pledge of allegiance outside. Trump, can you take care of the wall?"

The Donald grinned slyly. "Of course I can. You're going to love it, believe me."

* * *

White Harbour, three weeks later

Rodrik Forrester took his second cup of ale from Royland's outstretched hand. The Ironrath master of arms then turned around and continued talking to some newfound companions. White Harbour's reputation as the only city in the North made it a haven for rumours and gossip from all over Westeros. Occasionally tales from Essos would be told by an untrustworthy customer at a local bar, and arguments over the veracity of the stories would be held. It was here that Rodrik waited for his brother Asher's arrival.

The last raven that Asher had sent mentioned that a large number of orders had been placed for the Ironwood shields from customers such as Dothraki lords, warlords and gangsters from the Free Cities, mercenary companies operating within the proximity of Slaver's Bay, and a certain Daenerys Targaryen. Unfortunately, only the Mother of Dragons had thus far been fooled into paying the fee upfront, but otherwise it would take a second expedition to Essos for the delivery of the goods and subsequent payment to be made.

Rodrik had not known about the directive to advertise Ironwood shields. He was informed by his mother that Trump had made that part of his uncle's mission.

Right. He wasn't told that the Maester was secretly Ebert Whitehill in disguise, or that Trump was torturing him for information. He wasn't told that Gryff Whitehill and the whole Whitehill garrison was murdered. He didn't have a say in anything in any of Trump's deals in King's Landing, or who the Ironwood shields were being sold to. While he was in a corpse cart travelling the length of the North from the Twins to Ironrath, Trump was teasing both Ludd Whitehill and Ramsay Bolton. Did he... was it... yes, was it a direct letter to Roose Bolton himself that Trump sent?

The man didn't understand diplomacy. He was shamelessly rude, and sexist too if Mira's accounts of his behaviour in King's Landing was true. He kept trying to push towards the most extreme actions possible, such as reporting Ramsay Bolton to his father rather than negotiating with Ramsay himself.

But for all his vices, Trump's fatal flaw was that he underestimated his enemies. In war, one of the mental scars soldiers emerge with is fear. It's not the fear of death. It's the fear you get when you're part of the infantry, you clash shields with your enemy and you look in his eyes. It's the fear you get when you see the hatred and bloodlust. It's the fear you get when you realise _he wants to kill you_. In that moment, a battle turns into survival between the predator and the prey. And the first to let his fear consume him becomes the prey.

So many men counter that by losing themselves in the rage. Fighting fire with fire. Violent stabs, vicious slashes, heaving shoves of shields.

And therein lies Trump's weakness. Every time thus far he had come into conflict with an opponent, he turned aggressive as soon as possible, and each time his foe had chosen to shy away from the conflict. Because what being would choose to risk his own life for a fight he would likely lose? But that was not war.

In war, the enemy would fight back. And he would fight back with desperation. And a cornered animal is terrifying. Donald Trump didn't understand that. A cornered animal fights back with such force, your blows stop hurting. Donald Trump didn't understand that. A cornered animal kills you with frightening brutality. Donald Trump didn't understand that.

"My Lord, I've received news that a ship from Meereen has arrived. Perhaps we should check if it's Asher." Said Royland as he approached Rodrik's table.

Rodrik stood up, resting almost none of his weight on his cane. His body had been healing everyday, even with the demise of the maester, also known as Ebert Whitehill in disguise.

"Let's go to the docks then." He answered.

* * *

Rodrik nodded towards his brother. Gone was the troublemaking youth who had been exiled to Essos in order to advert a war. In his place was a grinning mercenary captain, with an assortment of grizzled warriors behind him. Rodrik caught his breath as he began counting the contingent. There was a massive man who stood nearly a head taller than Rodrik, even taller than the Whitehill soldier Harys(who, according to Trump, "cryed like a big baby" when his neck was slit). There was a yellow-skinned man with small eyes armed with a weapon Rodrik had never seen before. In fact, most of the pitfighters seemed to be armed with crude and unconventional weapons. Designed for entertainment, not war.

Asher himself had a curved short sword by his side, and was flanked by two dark-skinned women with grim faces. Both were muttering about how cold it was.

He needed to speak to him in private. Rodrik exchanged small talk with Asher and a few sellswords, directed them towards Royland for their briefing and arrangements on travel to Ironrath. That settled, he took Asher by the shoulder and pulled him into a quiet corner.

"You've got quite the scar, Rodrik," his younger sibling said, "I might be the more handsome of the two of us now."

Rodrik grinned. "Thank you for the compliment, but we have more important things to focus on now. We're going to war with the Whitehills."

Asher nodded. "I've been preparing for this day for four years now." Rodrik looked at him strangely, until he realised Asher was referring to the reason for his exile four years ago – the Whitehills threatening to declare war on House Forrester because Asher and Ludd Whitehill's only daughter, Gwyn, fell in love and were about to marry.

"Good. I need you to understand that things have changed in the North. We may not be having a skirmish or two, then have the Starks impose a peace on us both. House Forrester has been greatly weakened by the War of the Five Kings, and especially Robb Stark's ambush at the Twins. I suppose you've heard of the Red Wedding?"

"Of course. Word travels fast. Everyone I knew was amused that of all people, it would be the 'honourable' North who would carry out the most treacherous backstab in hundreds of years."

"House Bolton rules the North as a consequence of the Red Wedding, and the Whitehills are one of their oldest bannermen. While House Bolton sending overt support to destroy us, a loyal vassal of House Stark, could easily spark rebellion amongst the other Northern houses, they will still support House Whitehill. They'd be happy to see Ludd Whitehill raze Ironrath. So it will be war, and without the Starks in charge... I think it will be to the death."

Asher could see where Rodrik was going with this. "So you're asking if I have it in me to kill Gwyn?"

Rodrik's visage darkened. He nodded once, slowly. Then he looked to Asher's side instead of facing him. "Do you?"

Asher's voice was tight. "Rodrik... frankly, I do. Believe me when I say that I could have Gwyn in front of me, right now, and I could run her through. I'll do it. But... I'll..." His voice trailed off.

Rodrik knew what the knowledge of your imminent death could do to you. That he knew from the many battles he fought alongside Robb Stark in the war. He also knew, from what Elaena had told him during their nights together, that knowing your love one was about to die bore the similar clench in your heart. _Like grain being milled_ , she had said, _I felt like my heart would broke into a hundred pieces when I heard you were dead. Then it broke into thousands more as the days passed, and news of the Red Wedding spread._

He couldn't imagine what it would be like for you to be the direct cause for your beloved's demise.

"Asher." He said. "I'm giving you permission to sit out this war. Maybe we might not go to war after all."

His brother shook his head with a hint of a grin on his face. "Not a chance, Rodrik. I've been in enough fights to know when it's too late to back down. There will be war." He raised his head and stared at the greatsword Rodrik had on his back. So much like their father.

He looked back down. "But not every Whitehill needs to die. Ludd, Torrhen, and Gryff maybe. But Gwyn and the rest of their family are kind people, Rodrik. They didn't ask for this war. We must show them mercy."

Rodrik nodded swiftly.

"I'll tell my men to follow you. Beskha and Amaya will order them to, at any rate. In the meantime, I'm going to a place outside Highpoint. Gwyn and I used to meet there in secret. If I'm closer to Highpoint, I may be able to save Gwyn from getting hurt."

"How will you do that?" Rodrik interrupted.

"Offer the Whitehills peace. Or spy on them. Or anything you need me to do. Consider the skills of the best mercenary in Essos at your services, brother."

* * *

Ironrath, one week later

"Donald, report the wall's status." commanded Rodrik.

Donald Trump looked about as happy as a New York property developer could be.

"It's beautiful. It's big. It's got everything we need to fight a war. We've got lots of good stuff in it, because I made a damn good deal and we all know how good I am with deals. Pointy stuff, boiling stuff, not so pointy stuff that's so heavy, you gotta just wonder, like seriously! What happens when you drop it on somebody's head? Hmm. Oh, it's going to be good, I promise okay?"

"The long version of it, my lord," said Royland, "is that we have a 30 feet high outer wall and a 40 feet inner wall. Both the main project of building the outer wall, as well as our two side construction projects of building a shelter walkway from the outer wall to the inner wall and reinforcing the inner wall are fully complete. We're surrounded from the left and right by mountains, so the Whitehills need to go through both walls in order to invade. The outer wall composition is,"

"Amazing. It's amazing, and we're going to win. Bigly." Rodrik grimaced.

"...fully stone and mortar. There won't be a trebuchet in the land that can break it down. The inner wall is mostly wood, as you already know, but we reinforced the foundations with stone. Perhaps upgrading the inner wall would be a task for the future. Fortunately, the gold dragons earned from the trade with Highgarden has been enough to pay and feed for the workmen, wood smiths and stone smiths. I understand, however, that our funds are limited. The construction of siege equipment has thus taken priority over training more men to fight in open combat. Your father, the late Lord Gregor, decommissioned the old trebuchet but much of the woodwork remains untouched. Gared Tuttle, along with your sister Talia, have been hard at work rebuilding the trebuchet. What it should possess as its ammunition is yours to decide."

"I think, my dad, he was a smart guy, a great guy, and he had a big garden once, it was beautiful and everybody loved it, and there was this big, fat rock and I was wondering, just imagine, you drop that thing on someone's head, _splish!_ "

"On to rationing. Ethan has taken it upon himself to account for the supplies. On the basis that a man and his family receives two loaves of bread a day, we can hold out for three months before starving if we are besieged tomorrow. Of course, two loaves of bread might not be enough for every family. If we send the women and children out of Ironrath, the men would be better fed, and we'd be able to extend our supplies to six months or more."

"That won't be necessary Royland. I promise you, Ludd will attempt to storm Ironrath. Besides, where would the women and children go?"

"As you say, Lord Rodrik. As for siege weaponry. Before I continue, I must say that our smallfolk have proven to be rather skilled craftsmen, and little of the Ironwood we've harvested has been wasted. Pre-existing siege weaponry includes the fifty spears that the late Lord Eddard gave your father and the excess caltrops that King's Landing refused to buy, back in your father's day. We have seven caltrops in case of cavalry, enough to bring down any horsemen passing through one gate. We modified a few of the spears with metal hooks repurposed from farming equipment on the side in order to bring down ladders, but our supply of string is running low so we couldn't do more. Most of our time and resources have been dedicated towards crossbow marksmanship training and increasing the number of crossbow bolts we have. I am proud to say that at the last count, we have over three hundred and fifty-four crossbow bolts, and twenty-seven crossbows. Every man in the keep can be expected to use a crossbow.

"We also had leftover stone from the building of the wall, so I've decided to repurpose this as projectiles to be dropped on the enemy. Lastly, we have three barrels half-filled with boiling sand that we can throw on any attacker. Right now, our focus is on increasing our numbers of crossbow bolts and boiling sand barrels. Unfortunately, both string and sand are in short supply, so there may not be much more that I can do, m'lord." Royland finished.

"Thank you for your report Royland. I'm going to the cellars to check on our supplies. Any news from Bernie? He took off so fast after I had the sellswords bend the knee to me"

"He sent a raven saying he has returned to Highpoint, and is trying to convince them to back down, even though Ludd Whitehill knows that Gryff is dead."

"I guess war is going to be unavoidable."

"See, I told you, I told all of you and ain't ye'all glad ya listened to me? Walls are...?"

Rodrik covered his face with a hand and sighed.

"Good."

"Also, there's a message from Asher. He hired a local smallfolk and had the message hand-carried all the way from Highpoint's vicinity, where he's communicating with Gwyn Whitehill in secret. The Whitehills are on the march."

"What?"

"The Whitehills are on the march. The messenger should have been able to travel faster than the Whitehill army, but not by much given how close Ironrath and Highpoint are. They could be here anytime from in an hour to the end of the day." Royland said.

"Ohoh this is gunna be gud boys. That wall is goin' to come in handy."

Rodrik stood up abruptly, and glared at Trump, who shrugged and raised his hands as if he had been accused of something he hadn't done.

"I thought we had a couple of weeks left at least. Ludd doesn't know about Ebert and Gryff and his garrison, does he?"

"He doesn't. Not a single man who knows has been allowed to leave Ironrath. But that's not why he's going to war." answered Royland. "He's had a new advisor arrive at Highpoint. A blonde woman who has urged him to go to war to save his sons and the garrison. Asher hasn't been able to get more information about her, except that she knows Bernie Sanders."

Rodrik took another glance at Trump, who was now sulking, then shouted. "Mobilise all our men! We need to start preparing for war, now!"

* * *

"Hear me!" Rodrik yelled as soon as the pitfighters gathered. A sketch of the layout of Ironrath had been drawn on the sand for the benefit of everyone to see.

"Here's our plan. We will split our forces in two. While some of us hold the Whitehills at the wall, a smaller strike force will sneak out of Ironrath and raze the Whitehill camp. I'm leading the force myself. Amaya and ten of your best pitfighters will follow me. I'll brief you separately as to the mission parameters."

"All of us pitfighters can take on anyone. You have no need to doubt us." Amaya replied.

"Good." Rodrik continued. "The Passage and the outer wall will be held by the sellswords who have recently pledged themselves to us. Gared Tuttle will lead this team. Royland Degore will hold the inner wall alongside the rest of the pitfighters and our soldiers. Gared and Royland will both brief their teams on what to do. Forresters, move out!"

The Donald began flailing his hands about.

"Wait wait a minute, what am I supposed to do? I mean, what are you supposed to do without me, huh? I don't get it. I'm like, the smartest guy here and nobody's smart enough to let me help them."

Rodrik turned and glared at him. He pointed at the wall.

"Go piss off the Whitehills."

* * *

 _The Whitehills were heard before they were seen. Smallfolk kept arriving at the gates between intervals. Families of farmers, smiths of varying crafts, and even soldiers hobbled, scampered, and tripped their way to Ironrath. They bore news of a massive army, gobbling the landscape with men and iron. Whispers rumoured that at their forefront rode a woman with golden hair and a wrinkled brow, before who all the Whitehills kneeled. Wherever she rode, the Whitehills were risen to anger, and cried chants of war and rage._

 _By her flanks were a fat man with balding hair that even commoners recognised as Ludd Whitehill, and by his side rode a grim younger man whose speech was so foul, mothers held their hands over their children's ears when he approached. The Whitehills brought with them trades of siege such as ladders and large protective shields five metres long in width and breadth, and a grunting battering ram that defaced the earth over which it moved. With their passing lands died and smallfolk screamed, and begged for mercy..._

"We're goin' to win. We're goin' to win and win and win so much, you'll be seeck of it."

 _The Whitehills made camp at dusk 2 kilometres from Ironrath. They herded the Forresters in their stronghold like sheep before the kill, and by night lit bonfires that allowed guesses amongst the wise men of Ironrath as to the strength of their numbers._

"We have a beeg, fat wall. Nobudy's goin' to git past our wall. And oh, excuse me, excuse me ahem I'm talking. We have _two_ walls, and even if they get past our first one, oh you know China, lots of peeple got past their wall, we're not going to let them to but I'm just saying, if. If they get past our first big, fat wall, we have another big fat wall, and they're going to be in such a mess. Yeah. Very ugly, all the daed bodies."

 _A single bonfire could feed ten men. There were fifty bonfires._

"And hey, they think they're so smart, I think we're even smarter. Cos I'm telling you, half those things have nobody, absolutely nobody there. And the other half have like three guys making out."

 _At noon of the second day, the Whitehills emptied their camp and brought all siege weapons, swords, shields, and horses to the gates of Ironrath's Twin Walls. They marched in a row of fifteen men each, and filled the plateau between two mountain ranges that led to Ironrath._

"I'm going to take a special soldier, he's going to be very good at what he does, and I'm going to tell him to look into the Whitehills. He's going to count them, very fast, very fast. You look Chinese, you're going to count for me. Chinese can count, can't they? You're saying you can't count? Don't lie to me I know they can count, I hire Chinese like I hire Miss USA, ahem. What was I saying? Okay, so..."

 _I cried aloud when I saw them. There were as many Whitehills as there are bees out of an enraged hive, bristling with pointed swords and..._

"And you, what, I mean, it's not okay, okay? You're saying good things about the bad guys, you don't do that, unless you wanna lose!"

Ethan Forrester stopped writing. "I don't intend to lose, I just wanted to keep track of the war!"

Donald Trump shook his head. "No no no, excuse me. We're going to go out, and count them properly, okay? We're going to count just how many, excuse me, I'm going to throw up *fake vomits*, of those idiots there are out there. Yellow guy, you come with me. Actually you know what, everybody gets to come with me. I know you want to, don't you? Come here, sweetie." He grabbed Talia by the hand.

"My mother told me not to leave the Great Hall no matter what," replied Talia, eyes staring down at Trump.

"Oh sweetie, you know you want to come with me. Cute isn't she? In five years I'll be dating her." The Donald took Talia by the hand, but she used her free hand to hit his hand. Trump let go, and Talia ran to her room.

"Talia!" Ethan cried, and followed her. The Forresters stared at each other anxiously. Rodrik Forrester was in the full leather and chainmail armour that he had last worn in the Red Wedding. With him stood Royland, his sentinel, and Arthur Glenmore, his brother-in-law. Behind them, the Forresters were arranged in 4 full columns.

The first column, to be led by Gared Tuttle, would hold the outer wall. The fifty sellswords who had sworn oaths to Rodrik would prove their worth by holding the wall with their lives. The lord of Ironrath had been sure to equip them with standard Ironwood shields, the pole-arms that had been modified to fling ladders from resting on the walls, and spears. Some of the better marksmen had been given permission to use Ironrath crossbows.

The second column was led by Bloodsong and the Beast, two of the fiercest of Asher's pitfighters, and consisted of all the remaining pitfighters who hadn't been chosen for the surprise attack. Their task was to man the top of the Passage of Death, the sheltered passageway that linked the two walls, and send burning oil, sand, water, or throw rocks, or shoot arrows. Anything to murder as many Whitehills as possible through the trapdoors that lined the ceiling of the passageway. From above, their duty would be to rain hell on the Whitehills who had gotten past the first gate.

The third column would be led by Arthur and his elite Glenmore guard. They would man the inner wall, laying down covering arrow fire while the first two columns retreated in case the first wall was ever overrun. Then, they would be tasked to hold the inner wall at all costs.

The fourth column would be led by Royland, although the man himself would fight alongside Gared at the outer wall at the start of the battle. As the battle proceeded and the first wall was lost, he would fall back past the ceiling of the Passage of Death(which was connected to both walls) and to the inner wall. His mission was to lead the Forrester troops, levied from all the male smallfolk who were old enough to fight as well as inexperienced soldiers not chosen to serve in the war, and hold the second gate at all costs.

Finally, the fifth column would be led by Rodrik. He would lead Amaya, Beskha, and the pitfighters chosen for this mission to attack the Whitehill camp. They would travel through a secret passageway that led from Ironrath to the end of the mountain range, that was roughly where the Whitehill camp was located. They would take the Whitehill camp, and any guards left in there, by surprise and raze it. Without shelter, supplies, or a sewage system, the Whitehills wouldn't be able to keep up the siege for long.

"Looks like we're ready to go," Rodrik said after swallowing a bitter curse. "Shall we move out?"

Royland nodded. "I can hear the Whitehills out there baying for blood. It's time we gave them what they always had coming for them."

* * *

The Forresters deployed rapidly, Rodrik to the secret passageway, Arthur at the inner wall, Bloodsong and the Beast at the Passage of Death, Royland directing the men to gather at the inner gate while all the women and children stayed in the Great Hall and barred the doors. And of course, Donald Trump was followed by Gared Tuttle, as well as the sellswords, to the outer wall.

 _As I was saying, hundreds of Whitehills had gathered outside Ironrath. They bellowed for war, fire, and blood. There were at least thirteen ladders, all longer than the height of Ironrath's walls, and the dreaded battering ram ominously moved towards our undefended gate._

Donald Trump stared down a dirty, ugly mob. A woman sat atop a wooden chair lifted by four Whitehill soldiers, sulking at the general uncleanliness of the common folk and how, uh, close she had to be to, you know, convince them of, that going to war was a good idea.

 _Trump's eyes never left that woman. Even as Whitehills began to respond to his presence with battle cries and outrage, his gaze was steady._

He thought, well, obviously this isn't going to be a big deal. That's why I, uh, made sure my people knew, and his people knew too, that this was going to be a big deal. That's why we have a battering ram. That's why we, you know, brought all our soldiers out, to go to war! Because, killing Ludd's kid and soldiers, is a very, big deal. You look at the laws and the Constitution, it's banned. People shouldn't be standing for this, you look up , you'll see all the lies he's been giving you. And as long as I'm President, I, am not going to stand for all this.

 _Trump's gaze was steady even as the man to his right, the one who had poked a stick at the Whitehills after killing their men, all those weeks ago, called out to him._

" _Ser Donald, your orders?" called out Gared Tuttle._

 _Trump broke his gaze to close his eyes and think._

" _This was war. And we're so going to win it. And whatever I do, it's going to be the right thing. We will make House Forrester wealthy again._

" _We will make House Forrester strong again._

" _We will make House Forrester safe again._

" _We will make House Forrester great again."_

 **AN: At this stage, the reader is treated to the Telltale helix storytelling. Four options are presented to the reader. All result in the same ending to the story regardless of what you pick. Your choice does not impact the story's ending, merely the route taken towards that ending. Whatever choice you may pick is completely disregarded in the next chapter. Choose wisely!**

 **Option A: "Madam Scandal there wants a song, whaddya say?"**

 **Option B: *Gives the bestest speech, ever***

 **Option C: "Shoot her!"**

 **Option D: ...**

* * *

 **Option A: "Madam Scandal there wants a song, whaddya say?"**

"Alright boys, show them that chant we got together!" shrieked Hillary Clinton.

The Whitehills beat their swords against their shields as they chanted.

"Clinton left, Clinton right

It's for Clinton that we fight!

Ooh! Aah! For Clinton we fight

Ooh! Aah! Yeah!

We'll beat the rest, we'll beat the rest,

We're Whitehills, we're Whitehills

Ooh! Aah! For Clinton we fight

Ooh! Aah! Yeah!"

"I don't know about you folks, but that was so lame, I nearly fell asleep. I think, peeple, Madam Scandal there wants a little song, whaddya say huh?" called out Trump.

"Alright people, on my command!" shouted Gared Tuttle. He raised his thumbs and index fingers such that the thumbs connected while the index fingers remained raised to form a half-formed H. The Forrester garrison, all one hundred of them, pointed with both index fingers, except that they kept their right arms fully extended and their left arms withdrawn.

"Three, two, one!" and Gared Tuttle brought his left hand, then his right hand down.

"Clinton Clinton, watcha gonna do?

Watcha gonna do when Trump comes for you?

Benghazi failure, ain't getting no breaks.

Walmart director, ain't getting no breaks.

Serial killer, ain't getting no breaks.

Big fat liar, ain't getting no breaks.

Clinton Clinton, watcha gonna do?

Watcha gonna do when Trump comes for you?

Bill's scandals, ain't getting no breaks.

Clinton Foundation, ain't getting no breaks.

Wall Street bribery, ain't getting no breaks.

Fixed primaries, ain't getting no breaks.

Clinton Clinton, watcha gonna do?

Watcha gonna do when

TRUMP!

COMES!

FOR!

YOU!"

The fury in Hillary's eyes told the story of how much better the Forrester's cheer-leading was.

"Urgh! That, that insolent nincompoop! I say, somebody delete that man!" hollered Hillary Clinton, pointing at the only man on the wall wearing a business suit.

"The same way you deleted your emails?" countered Trump.

"Where are the emails? Where are the emails? Where are the emails?" chanted the Forrester garrison.

"Is she lying boys? Tell 'em!" cried Royland. "Hill-Liar chant!"

"Hillary is lying! Hillary is lying! Hillary is lying! *foot stomp*

Who's she who lies more than all the rest? *foot stomp*

Hill-Liar Hill-Liar, more than the rest! *double clap*

Who's she who fixed the nomination? *foot stomp*

Hill-Liar Hill-Liar, above the rest! *double clap*

Who's she who called us deplorable? *foot stomp*

Hill-Liar Hill-Liar, and not the rest! *double clap*"

A mighty guffaw was about both Whitehill and Forrester troops. Royland grinned.

"Looks like they want some more boys! Come on, let's have Flip-Flops!"

The Forrester townspeople shouted in unison.

"If I were, a Hillary

And I wanted to be a nominee

I would flip-flop to all my voters, that's how they'll vote for me.

Because if I didn't, they'd see I couldn't, make a good President.

And everyone would know, cos it would really show

The media is biased for me.

If I were, a Hillary

And I wanted to be a nominee

I would steal all of Bernie's platforms, then say he took them from me.

Then I'll steal all the voters of all my opponents, especially from Bernie.

Or else everyone would know, cos it would really show

The DNC is biased for me.

If I were, a Hillary

And I wanted to be a nominee

I'll say I'm a woman, just bet-ter than other humans

And I'll take Wall Street's bribes, don't care about diatribes

So everyone would know, cos it would really show

Wall Street is biased for me."

A sudden silence enveloped both Forresters and Whitehills. Royland got the horrible feeling that the Whitehills were smirking at them. Why exactly were they doing that?

"Krinkon," a gargled sound came from his side.

Royland turned to see a dying Donald Trump. Blood was pouring from his neck all over his body.

"Trump!" he cried as he caught the collapsing great man.

The Forrester crowd paused, as if unsure of what was happening.

"Looks like feminism won today, boys." Shouted Hillary Clinton. Laughter, now distinctly mocking, came from the Whitehill ranks.

"Donald's been shot! Donald's been shot, someone help him! Someone fetch the maester, hurry!" cried Royland Degore.

Donald Trump tried to breathe, but he was choking on his own blood and the gaping hole in his throat formed from a crossbow wound. He lasted for a few seconds, gripped Royland by the shoulder, and whispered into his ear.

Royland Degore nodded, then laid Trump down on the battlements the Donald himself had built. He drew his sword, raised it into the air, and roared.

"Kill them all!"

Gared Tuttle screamed in a bestial fit of rage. He raised his spear, to chants of confusion from his fellow Forresters, and pointed it towards the Whitehill army in a bid to rally everyone.

"What are we waiting for? Kill them all!"

A hundred voices echoed Gared Tuttle's, all shaking with the anticipation of violence.

"Kill them all! Kill them all! Kill them all!"

* * *

 **Option B: *Gives the bestest speech ever***

"Quieten down now, I'm going to give a speech." Donald Trump replied.

Gared Tuttle paused. Anticipation and fear crept up his spine. Trump had just gave a sentence under 10 words. What had changed?

 _So brilliant was Trump's speech, that in all of the recorded histories of the North no man spoke more fluently, yet struck the strings of men's hearts to compel them to war. No man remembered the exact words of more than that first sentence, for such was the skill of Donald Trump. His words were tasted, savoured, then like a fine roast beef eaten too quickly, ended without having asked for its name or recipe._

"Who would've thought that when we started building this wall that we, and I say we, because we are a team! Would make the tallest, highest, best wall in all of the North! We came together, we worked hard, and we made it folks. We made it, because when we stand together, no one can defeat us! We built this wall! We can build anything, or crush anything in our way. And that includes the uglies you see down there."

 _He spoke of unfairness, and the lopsided struggle to be endured. He spoke of the harshness of the North in winter, the barrenness of its land, the hate between its people. He made passing mentions to Clinton, and Sanders, though no one knows in what manner of purpose._

"We started out with so few people, and people laughed at us. Who's laughing now, huh?" Trump grinned and waved. "We had a cold, hard land. We had a hard time. Everybody hated us, but we made this wall! If we can build this wall, we can build anything!

"See those people down there? They're with her. I'm with YOU! Hillary thinks everything should go her way. I think everything should go your way! And you know Bernie, he thinks we can have peace with the Whitehills. I love that man, I do, really. But we can't go hugging our enemies while they stab us. We need to stab them first, and kill them! Or else we die. It's that simple, rilly."

 _It was said that Trump then expounded on the darkness that clouded men's hearts..._

"These people hate us! We were starving, and they cut our trees down! We lost a lot of great people, wonderful people that I very, very highly respect. And they sent a basturd to shame us! These people hate us so bad, folks, they will take everything from us. That's right, you heard me. They will take our land from us. They will take our food from us. They will take our homes from us. They will take our money from us. They will take our families from us. And once they've taken it all, they will take our lives from us."

 _...and called for war to be waged once more..._

"I never wanted war, war's bad for business. But being dead means you have absolutely nothing you owned, and they have absolutely everything, every single thing you worked so hard for, they have it all. And you know what being alive means? Being alive, means they are going to take absolutely everything you have. Then they'll kill you.

"Folks, if you want peace, you need to go to war first. And that's what we're here for today. That's what they're here for today! So let's give it to them! Let's give them war! Give them war! Give them war! Give them war! Give them war!"

 _But then, a most terrible and cruel turn of events occurred._

"Give them... urk." Donald Trump collapsed to the floor with a crossbow bolt in his throat. He flailed as he sought for oxygen, but his air passage was crushed. Before Gared Tuttle's shocked eyes, the Donald's exertions grew more desperate, then weak, and finally stopped.

* * *

 **Option C: "Shoot her!"**

"Gared, shoot her!" Trump roared with vehement fury.

"Yes, sir!" a crossbow bolt flew towards Clinton, but Gared took too little time to aim. The bolt struck one of the Whitehills carrying Clinton's chair, and the man buckled over, then was crushed by the chair and Clinton collapsing onto him.

"Fire at will!" demanded Ludd Whitehill. Several dozen crossbows pointed at Trump instantaneously. Every Forrester but Trump ducked below cover.

Trump inched away to his left, miraculously dodging three bolts, then hopped to his right, causing another two to strike the parapets instead. He danced back and forth so enthusiastically that he did not see the crossbowman who timed it just right.

"Ugh!" The first bolt pierced his belly. He stopped moving back and forth. It was just enough time for the remaining twenty or so crossbowmen to have him in their sights.

The bolts sped through air, clothes, flesh, bone, flesh, clothes, air again. A shriek of delight came from Hillary Clinton, and the Forresters on the wall roared with grief and rage. Behind them, the pitfighters, used to death but unused to war, grimaced in anticipation. On the second wall, Arthur Glenmore and his men stared in horror as the man they regarded as the de-facto leader of the Forresters fell. Confusion reigned amongst the smallfolk behind the second wall as they heard gasps and shouting.

Gared Tuttle pulled the big man down too late. A crossbow bolt clinched every corner of flesh he could see, including one in the eyes.

Donald Trump was dead.

* * *

 **Option D: ...**

 _It could be that the look on Donald Trump's face offended Hillary Clinton that much. Or it could have been that she was willing to kill him on sight. Perhaps it had nothing to do with Clinton, and rather it was a plan conceived by the Whitehills without her knowledge. We may never know, for as soon as she saw him..._

"That's Donald Trump! That's the one!" shouted a Whitehill soldier. The uproar continued up and down the ranks, and several crossbows raised. Drawn. Loosed.

They did not miss their mark. Donald Trump was struck in the chest, stomach, and forehead with three crossbow bolts. The man fell with a hard thud onto the floor. Gared Tuttle crawled to his side.

"Ser Donald!" He cried, the blood of Trump pooling crimson over his leather armour. The man was alive, but barely. His eyes were confused and out of focus. "What should I do?" whispered Gared Tuttle.

Somehow, those last words gave Trump one last burst of energy. He stared at Gared, then lifted a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Let Melania... and my kids know..." Trump coughed blood, and his grip weakened. "...that I love them."

"What about us? House Forrester?" begged Gared.

 _All time and place seemed to not matter. The roars of angered soldiers, the battle cries, the_ trump trump trump _sound of crossbow bolts against the wall, faded. The memories of building the wall, the smiles of approval from the people, the chanting of his name. The memories of waking up in a foreign land, far away from his comfortable bed_.

 _Remembering the days towards the election, and the bitter fight as November 8 approached. Remembering the crowds who cheered him on, the women who lied about him, the attacks by the pro-Clinton media. Remembering the Republican primaries, and how challenger after challenger fell out. Ben Carson, Ted Cruz, Jeb Bush, Marco Rubio, Chris Christie, Carly Fiorina. Remembering the day he announced his run for President, with Ivanka inviting him in._

 _The day he married Melania. The day his older brother Fred died. The day Ivanka was born. The day he divorced Ivana. The day he married Ivana._

 _Studying in UPenn. Chatting with friends. The pride on his father's face when he got his admissions letter to UPenn._

 _Watching the architect Othmar Ammann ignored when developer Robert Moses thanked people for helping to build New York's Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. It was 1964. He was 18, and he accompanied his father to the ceremony opening of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Othmar Ammann was the man who designed the bridge, but he never got even the slightest bit of thanks for his role in designing the bridge._

Othmar Ammann was a sucker. That's why he lost. That's why he, Donald J. Trump, always wanted to win – he would be no one's sucker.

"Gared..." Trump whispered, "don't be... a...

Gared Tuttle was muted with anticipation.

"...sucker."

And with that, Donald Trump died.

* * *

 **AN: To all my readers, I apologise for the extended period of time in which I've not updated, as well as the cliffhanger. The conclusion to Donald Trump Edition: How Telltale's Game of Thrones should have Ended will be the next chapter. Thank you for all your comments, reviews, and words of encouragement. If you've even thought my story worthy to be clicked on (perhaps for the title?), that alone makes my day. I'm so glad my story brought much entertainment to you. Thank you again, and the Donald appreciates it(even though he happens to be dead in this story). I intend to keep to my promise of finishing this story before the election on Nov 8, but even if I break it, I will definitely finish this. Definitely.**


	6. Chapter 6: Winning, Winning and Winning

_Time: 23:58 Date: November 8, 2016. Location: Trump Tower_

 _Donald Trump sat amidst the luxurious furniture sprawled around a massive room filled with luxury brands of all kinds. Most had his name branded on it in giant golden letters, written in stylish fonts. Golden statues of eagles, lions, dragons, and other majestic creatures awaited the Donald. At any other time he would have been more interested in his smartphone, but ever since his campaign decided to suspend his online activity by confiscating his phone, Trump's only source of news had been Fox News._

 _He was watching at Fox News even now. The news anchor was showing the preliminary results from the East Coast. "Nothing unexpected", the anchor said._

 _Nothing good. The worst expectations had him losing even solidly red states like Texas. But as far as he could tell, Texas held Republican. The earliest state to declare Republican was West Virginia, which was no surprise – his numbers absolutely dominated there. But there was very little to suggest he could overcome Clinton's swarms of Latinos in Florida. He'd have to take any combination of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin, all of which were solidly blue Democratic states._

 _Trump crossed his arms, and hoped._

* * *

Time: ? Date: ? Location: Ironrath, the North, Westeros

"Continue firing!" shouted Hillary Clinton as the Forresters ducked under the ramparts. Mere seconds ago, they, Forresters and Whitehills alike, had watched in shock as Hillary Rodham Clinton ordered the Whitehill crossbowmen to kill Donald Trump. The crossbow bolts flew true, and alas, the great builder Donald Trump had been felled.

The other Forresters took advantage of the Whitehills reloading to retrieve their crossbows.

"Notch!" shouted Gared Tuttle, leader of the Forrester defenders on the first wall, a rag-tag bunch of former sellswords who had sworn their allegiance to his lord, Rodrik Forrester, not too long ago. Following his orders, every sellsword with a crossbow held in his hands loaded their weapon with a bolt, raised it, and took aim.

"Aim for the crossbowmen!" shouted Gared again, waiting several seconds before saying, "Fire!"

The Forresters adjusted their aim, then fired at the Whitehill crossbowmen. From their superior vantage point, the former had the advantage of height and cover over the exposed Whitehills. The first barrage felled half a dozen Whitehills who had been caught unaware. The rest continued reloading, but picked up the speed upon seeing their fallen comrades.

Gared nudged the crossbowman to his right, and pointed at Hillary Clinton, hoisted on a makeshift litter carried by four grumpy Whitehills without any walls.

"Shoot it down!" he ordered. The crossbowman complied, loaded a crossbow bolt, raised it, and was about to fire when Gared pushed him under the ramparts once more. The crossbowman mouthed was about to mouth a curse when another barrage of bolts struck the thick wooden ramparts, several denting the board, one even penetrating it.

Gared peeked from above the ramparts. Every Whitehill crossbowman was now reloading his weapon, again exposed to the Forresters' counter barrage.

"Notch! And aim for the crossbows!" shouted Gared, "You on my right, aim for that woman on the litter! Fire!"

More Whitehills fell, gasping as the bolts penetrated their thin iron chestplates and punctured nerves, arteries, organs. Some fell immediately, others staggered and turned around to retreat. The thinning line of crossbows began to waver.

"Ow mahy gosh!" shrieked Hillary Clinton as the crossbow bolt targeted at her missed.

"Aw, mah god" she said again a second later as the litter-carrier who had gotten struck in her place began releasing his share of the burden.

The litter crashed on its carriers, Hillary coming to an unceremonious dump in the mud with them. The angered woman got up, and waved at the Whitehills.

"Attack those damn misogynists!" she shouted, her vocabulary incomprehensible to the Whitehills. That said, the Whitehills had been fully expecting, indeed hoping, for an all-out assault on the stronghold of their most hated opponents, a people that each and every one of them had grown up learning to associate with vehemence, contempt, and undeserved Ironwood riches.

The battering ram and the fourteen men on each side manning it trudged slowly forward to the gate of Ironrath's first wall. On each of its sides, six ladders carried by a dozen Whitehills each advanced to assault Ironrath. The banging of swords against shields that formed the rudimentary Whitehill warcry ceased, and they begun to make for Ironrath's wall.

Gared Tuttle, seeing this, redirected his men.

"Switch targets! Aim for the men carrying the ladders! Notch! Fire!" he shouted. Committed to carrying their burden as they were, the Whitehills bearing the siege ladders could not raise their shields and many were felled.

"Notch!" The Forresters tended to their crossbows, those without crossbows assisting those who did in order to speed up reloading times.

"Aim!" Over a score of crossbows aligned themselves to a Whitehill's heart.

"Fire!" The _twang_ of bolts being released was urgently followed by a satisfactory sound of metal penetrating chainmail, flesh, and bone. The screams of dying men came swiftly after, and one of the siege ladders stumbled as their surviving bearers tried to rebalance themselves.

Behinds them, Ludd Whitehill rode around his men, waving his greatsword and presumably giving orders. As far as Gared could see, they were disorganised, seemingly eager for a fight yet unable to countenance the losses they were enduring. But both Ludd and Torrhen Whitehills were battle-hardened commanders, Gared knew, and held the respect of their men.

The Lord of the Whitehills selected the first three ranks of the widely spaced-apart Whitehill army, made wild motions towards Ironrath, and those unlucky soldiers began assembling at particularly unsteady siege ladders.

"Notch!" shouted Gared once more. "Fire!"

* * *

From within the Great Hall, Talia could tell that the battle had started. Her mother had taken precautions, of course. Lady Forrester had withdrawn all her children to the Great Hall, with a few trusted Forrester guards with her, and sealed the door. With them were all the women and children within Ironrath, huddled close together to within the dining table and its vicinity, praying for a favourable outcome to the battle.

The sounds coming from outside were unsettling, yet Talia felt a strange sense of eagerness. Anticipation. Even with a thick wooden door separating them, the voice of Donald Trump mocking the Whitehills was distinctive. Soft, but distinctive like the creep he was. Then there was the _chut, chut, chut_ of crossbows firing. Talia stopped walking to lessen the noise, and listened more carefully.

 _Chut. Chut. Chut._ A scream so loud and sudden it shook her and sent her spine tingling. She heard more crossbows firing, but this time she heard _thunk_ sounds far more prominently. She saw her mother trying to catch her eye.

"Come sit here with me, Talia." Lady Forrester said. Her younger daughter nodded and walked over to her mother. Ethan and Ryon were already sitting together with their mother. After a long pause, Lady Forrester finally spoke.

"I wasn't there when my father's family was destroyed." She said bitterly. "I was still pregnant with Rodrik back then. Rodrik, now Lord of our house, who is fighting to keep us alive." All three of her youngest children remained silent, although Talia felt a sense of – irritation? She so wished to fight alongside her brother.

"I wonder what it must have been like, for my brothers and sisters. My father. My mother. My aunts and uncles. I remember the faces of my nephews and nieces, some of them babes in their beds." She took a look at Ryon, the youngest of all her children. A loud boom that could only have come from a battering ram was heard. "I thought... I hoped I'd introduce Rodrik to all his older cousins one day. His uncles and aunts. His maternal grandparents."

Another boom. More _chut chut_ , shouting and screaming.

"They'd known they were in a precarious position, of course. The Tyrells, their lords, were busy warring in the South, so they couldn't control vassals who bore grudges against us. But my father thought he could fend it off." Lady Forrester blinked thrice in quick succession. "We had such high walls. So many proud men, and so much food."

Ryon prodded her, and she glanced at him with a weary, loving smile. "So, how did Grandfather lose?" he asked. Talia watched Ethan nod in agreement at the question.

Lady Forrester sighed, as the thunderous bashes of battering ram against the gate and the sounds of crossbow fire became almost normal, if not regular. She looked towards the heavens.

"I don't know the exact details, but I remember that we ended up under siege by our enemies. Just like now." Ryon huddled closer to his mother, and Ethan brushed against Talia's arm. "I don't know how he did it, but there must have been a traitor in their ranks. Our smallfolk were loyal, but hunger, not being paid their wages, and facing a siege can make a traitor out of anyone."

She let a pause before speaking again.

"One day the gate was left open, and our enemies stormed the keep."

* * *

"Switch weapons! Melee weapons only! Brace for the ladders!" Gared finally said. His own crossbowmen had done well to both suppress the Whitehills' crossbow troops, but the combined threats of the siege ladders and the Whitehills crossbows proved to be too many targets for his twenty-something crossbows to handle.

As he spoke, the latter had been thinned and decimated to the point that they had all withdrew to the main ranks of the Whitehill army, abandoning their forward skirmishing positions. However, the siege ladders had gotten too close for the Forresters to aim at, given the non-parabolic movements of crossbow bolts at close ranges. Two Whitehill ladders made contact with the wall at once, one on the far end of the wall, the other mere metres away from him.

He raced towards the ladder closer to him and began hacking at it with his sword. Within a few strikes, the top of the ladder was lopped off, forcing the Whitehills at the bottom to readjust the angle of the ladder to the wall. Better still, that meant that the ladder was more unsteady, and also short enough such that any Whitehill scaling it would have to crawl over the ramparts before fighting the Forresters defending the wall.

"Do what I just did on the other side! You see a ladder, you hack its top off!" shouted Gared to his men. The six men around him shouted affirmatives back. "Pass the message down the line, idiot!" shouted Gared again when no one made a move. This time, one of them gestured at himself, before taking the hint and scampering through the wall, shouting at the other Forresters on his behalf.

The Whitehill ladders were now closing in everywhere. That soldier passing the message couldn't have timed it better. Within seconds, five, six, seven more ladders made contact with the wall. Forresters hacked furiously at the ladders, whose bearers tried furiously to readjust them, often when a man was already attempting to scale it. But the temporary diversion was over quickly, and the first Whitehill soon had his hands on the ramparts.

Right in front of Gared.

The Forrester squire grabbed the man by the chin, bony and hard and vulnerable chin, and drove his sword in between his eyes. Blood squirted out. The Whitehill died instantly, and Gared pushed the man off the ladder. The blood on his sword was a sickly dark crimson, Gared decided.

He was quickly replaced by another Whitehill, scaling the ladder quickly to avoid the fate of his companion. This one managed to gain enough momentum to swing his legs onto the rampart, turning his body horizontal. Gared merely inverted his sword. A simple thrust through the neck ended the man's life. _Too easy_ , he thought as he heaved the man off the ramparts.

All around him the first Whitehills to scale the wall were receiving their deathblows, or falling off their ladder twenty feet below. Not a single one had managed to scale the ramparts.

But it was only going to get harder from there.

Gared could see the Whitehills congregating more than half their number towards the siege towers. The Forresters had known that there were around two hundred Whitehills under Ludd's command. Conventional military wisdom dictated that it would take thrice the number of attackers to overcome an entrenched defender. However, that only took the overall strength of the defenders. As the first line of defense, Gared and his men lacked the mechanisms to kill en masse afforded to the pitfighters on The Passage of Death, that corridor between the two walls which was exposed to numerous traps from its defender-held ceiling. Facing over twice the number of men he had wasn't going to be easy.

"There's more of them coming! Get ready!"

* * *

"And then what happened?" asked Ethan curiously. Talia elbowed her brother, then frowned at his confused face for good measure. Wasn't it obvious enough?

Lady Forrester glared at Talia for elbowing Ethan, then continued speaking. "I got the news from a raven – the last one my father had. He said they, my parents' family that is, were about to be killed. I still remember portions of that letter, though I've long lost it to mould and the damp."

"What did Grandfather say?" Talia asked. Lady Forrester closed her eyes again, as if to recall, then opened them and began to speak.

"I don't recall all of it, but it was a very short letter. I only remember two things, if you discount the fact that he didn't sign it off. It was obviously written in a great hurry, but I could always recognise my own father's handwriting. And there were bloodstains on it." Both Ethan and Ryon gasped, and Talia rolled her eyes. "The first one was that he wished myself and your father Gregor happiness in our life together. I wish that were true."

"What's the second one, Mother?" asked Ryon.

"The second one? The second one was that my own mother had been killed. My mother, who did nothing but show kindness and civility to all who knew her." At this point she looked at Talia dead in the eye. "It's her that I named you after, Talia."

* * *

 _Donald Trump flicked through CNN, Fox News, and the NBC on his television, and kept refreshing the page from the New York Times' and the Guardian's live reports. Nothing unexpected thus far. Vermont, ever a stronghold of the Democratic party, voted firmly for Clinton. 3 electoral votes to Clinton Kentucky and Indiana had been polling strongly for him, and hours after polls closed, 19 electoral votes went to him._

 _Of more interest were the swing states. Texas had experienced an upsurge in Democratic support recently, and suddenly Trump found himself worrying about a supposed Republican bastion. There were more worries. Florida had a record number of Latinos and Hispanics voting early – and they'd voted overwhelmingly Hillary. The odds were not looking good._

 _Trump checked the meter bar on the New York Times' website. It had two ends – one with the horse, and the other with the elephant. As states confirmed that they had voted Republican, or Democratic, the grey bar would be eaten up by red and blue bars._

" _Trump needs to pick up many more battleground states such as Florida (29 votes) as well as a handful of others such as Pennsylvania (20), Ohio (18), North Carolina (15), Arizona (11) and South Carolina (9). Based on polling, it looks like many of those victories will be an uphill battle" He read aloud the words from another political analyst. Not good. Pennsylvania and Ohio hadn't voted Republican since Reagan._

 _He'd have to win all traditionally red states, alongside some blue states like Pennsylvania and Ohio if he were to beat Clinton. And he couldn't lose a single battleground state._

 _Minutes later, West Virginia was called for Trump. Five more electoral votes to him. It still wasn't enough – the first counts from Florida were coming in, and Clinton was solidly beating him by over a hundred thousand votes in some counties. She was overperforming even Obama._

 _But there was conflicting evidence. Another analyst looked through the polling and actual election data. Indiana polled 49% for Trump, and its actual vote percentage was 63%. Kentucky polled at 54%, and voted 65%. Trump decided to get off his sofa, and walk around._

 _Half an hour later, at 1am, he returned to his laptop and television. More results were coming in._ _For Clinton:_ _Massachusetts, Maryland, New Jersey, Delaware and the District of Columbia._ _For Trump: Oklahoma. All expected._

 _Awhile later South Carolina declared for him. By now Trump had almost forgotten about the other states, and was singularly obsessed with Florida. The vote margins were close, very close. 49-47. Some places he was slightly ahead, others Hillary edged him out. He refreshed the page once more, and the new post had him shivering with excitement._

 _With 86% of the vote in, he was tied with Clinton. 49% to 49%. But there was still Broward, Palm Beach, and Miami-Dade to be counted. All three had voted Obama by 20 to 30 percentage points four years ago. The minutes ticked by, and another half an hour elapsed before Alabama declared for him. 9 more electoral votes._

 _Clinton grabbed Rhode Island ten minutes later, so that was another four electoral votes for her. But what caught Trump's eye now was his Twitter feed. Steve Schale, one of Obama's own political strategists, tweeted, "This_ _is pretty remarkable - in 41 counties in Florida, Trump's share is better than the best share that any R has gotten since 2000."_

I have a chance _, Trump thought_ , I have a chance. Okay? I can win this, no problem. No problem at all, nope. _As if on cue, another tweet stated he was up by 125 thousand votes in Florida – a lead that was increasing. Mississippi voted Republican again shortly after._

 _The liberals were finally worried at last. They began tweeting not about his imminent defeat, but about the swing states – North Carolina, Florida, Pennsylvania, and Ohio. 20 electoral votes from Illinois didn't manage to placate them. They finally realised. There always were closet Trump voters._

 _A succession of states went red – Texas, Wyoming, Kansas, North Dakota, and South Dakota. He was ahead in Virginia. He was still ahead in Florida, though it was too close to tell. He won Nebraska. The minutes went quickly, Trump alternating between refreshing the news websites, listening to the TV, and grinning at tweets from both frightened liberals and rejuvenated conservatives._

 _And now he had Lousiana too._ Oh Florida, you're going to be mine, you're going to be mine, you're gonna love it, _Trump thought. His son Eric suddenly tapped his shoulder, and asked for a group photo inside the "war room" with everyone inside. The Donald spent the next five minutes posing for the shot, his large family trying to squeeze into the picture._

 _By the time he came back to his laptop, Montana and Missouri had gone red. New Mexico voted for Clinton. Another comment caught his eye. "If Trump holds on in Michigan and Wisconsin, there is no path for Clinton (There's only a small one if he wins either of them)"_

" _Guys, peeple, peeple. come here and look. You're gonna love this." Trump called._

* * *

The Whitehill assault was in full force. Gared and the men around him had held his own ladder well enough, but another group of Forrester defenders failed to kill a Whitehill before he could scale the wall. The breakthrough forced the Forresters at that area backwards, giving the Whitehills more space. Before long, half a dozen others had followed the vanguard onto Ironrath's first wall and began pushing the former sellswords back. That catalysed a chain reaction of Whitehills gaining ground, liberating their fellows to climb onto the wall, then pushing with greater mass and gaining even more ground.

Gared was in the thick of it, pushing and heaving at the Whitehills' makeshift line. He targeted an enemy soldier with a slash, whose last second jerk brought his shoulder guard into contact with Gared's sword instead of his neck. The man roared and reflexively thrusted at Gared, who exploited the space offered by the thrust to deflect, then trap the sword, and disarm the Whitehill.

The man responded by bringing his shield to bear, and throwing his weight behind the shield. Gared did the same, and with a _thump_ the two of them heaved, each trying to gain the advantage.

Gared squatted as he pushed to lower his centre of gravity, but the Whitehill did the same. Silently they gritted their teeth, and forbade their shoulders from failing them, from losing ground. Suddenly the Whitehill relented, and Gared pushed him back, then slashed again with his longsword.

As the man collapsed, dying, Gared noticed an arrow in the man's left ribcage. _Our archers! They're firing!_ He took a glance, and confirmed it.

The Glenmore guards had begun drawing their bows, and taking potshots at the Whitehills. But the Whitehills hadn't fully taken the wall yet, so the Glenmores were conserving their ammunition by firing only when they were certain of a hit! Encouraged, Gared pushed back into the fray.

"Hold the wall! Hold the wall!" he kept shouting, moving just as the late Gregor Forrester did. Feint with the blade. Parry with the shield. Close in before the other combatant could bring his sword back to his side. Stab in between the eyes. Feint, parry. Close in. Stab, stab stab. Feint again. Parrying, closing in. That one retreated. Feint, but he didn't fall for it.

His first trick wasn't working any more. But Gared had more. Lord Gregor had been skilled with the use of greatswords and longswords alike, both complex weapons that could be used in many ways. To his squire he taught how to break down any defense. The Five Ways of Attack, as Lord Gregor called it. The first two were relatively simple: a single attack, and attacks with combinations involved. But the three more advanced concepts were the ones that dealt with how to counter defences.

Gared had been using the fifth way, "progressive indirect attack", as Lord Gregor called it. Using feints to trick more adventurous swordsmen into coming out of their guarded positions and advancing simultaneously opened his foes up to attack. Parry their attack, and counterattack as quickly as possible with a lethal strike to the head or neck. The best swordsmen, explained Lord Gregor, would parry _and_ kill in the same movement. Ser Arthur Dayne was famous for this, as was Jaime Lannister.

But this way didn't work against defensively-minded swordsmen who preferred to hide behind their shields. Especially those with really big shields, like the Whitehills. For this, there was the "hand interruption attack". A poor name, but the idea was nonetheless devastating.

Gared kept his distance from his opponent, keeping his sword hand close to his body. He moved suddenly to his left side, taking large steps, as if trying to exploit the unshielded right side of his opponent. The Whitehill turned quickly, but in the process gave Gared a small opening by accidentally lowering his shield.

That was all Gared Tuttle needed.

He batted the Whitehill's shield with all his force, just enough to expose the man's face, and finished him off with a thrust through the face. The Whitehill hit the ground moments later.

The next Whitehill was even more cautious. Seeing what had happened to his ally, and knowing that time would give them the advantage of allowing more men onto the walls, his next opponent refused to react to Gared's feints, or lower his shield when adjusting to his movements. Gared even tried striking down the shield, but the man was strong and disciplined, refusing to lower his shield.

 _Time for the last trick, then,_ thought Gared. Lord Gregor had taught him that no defense could survive without the means to counterattack – and that meant that even the most cautious swordsman, hiding behind his shield, would attack if he thought it present him an opportunity to do so safely.

Gared lowered his shield just an inch, pretended to lose balance after that last strike with his sword. The Whitehill recognised his opportunity, and thrusted at Gared. The latter brought his shield back up swiftly, then drove his sword into the unbalanced attacker. The Whitehill somehow managed to counter, but he effectively lost the chance to dominate the fight. Gared hewed at the man's neck, flesh met iron, and the Whitehill choked as his throat was ripped apart by Gared's sword.

Gared withdrew the sword, and let the man bleed out.

All around him, the Whitehills were pushing into the walls, and the Forrester defenders pushed back. _We have to hold the walls!_ Gared's mind screamed at him.

He went after another Whitehill, lowering his shoulder and shield to offer a target that the man couldn't resist stabbing at, then ducking under the expected stab. Gared instantly countered with a thrust through the ribcage. He kicked the Whitehill away, then repeated the trick against the next Whitehill.

Feint, parry, close in, thrust. This one was harder – provide an opening, counterattack, slash, stab. Feint, simultaneously thrust and parry. Duck, counterattack, a hand lopped off, then a head. Feint, feint, he wasn't falling for it. Gared battered the next Whitehill's shield, dodged the expected slash at his neck, and drove his sword through the man's throat. Another one committed to an attack on his exposed shoulder, and lost both sword and sword-hand when Gared cleaved it off. Gared closed in, but the man was quickly replaced by two of his fellow Whitehills.

"The pig farmer! It's him!" sneered one of them, recognition flashing in his eyes.

"I'll fucking end you for what you did!" Gared screamed, remembering how his father had pleaded before these same men disembowelled him.

Gared threw a slash to lure the Whitehill who had spoken – Britt, if he remembered right - closer. Britt fell for it, and furiously counterattacked. Gared ducked the first strike, then went for the man, no, monster's kidneys. The other Whitehill intervened just as Gared's sword met Britt's belly. He stabbed at Gared's eyes, and Gared responded by kneeling under his shield.

Gared withdrew his sword and reassumed his fighting stance. Britt and the one-handed soldier behind him were screaming in agony. All around them, Forresters and Whitehills impaled, slashed, hewed, cut, and sliced each other. Even though there were fifty men at his command, the Whitehills were more. They climbed up the ladders. They battered down the gate. They cried war cries and charged. They stomped on the bodies of his men, living and dead.

"Hold! The! Wall!" he screamed at his men.

"Hold the wall!" they screamed back, though with flagging vigour, "hold the wall!"

Gared charged into the three Whitehills he faced again, this time without abandon. The only uninjured Whitehill raised his shield too high to adjust to a strike, and Gared quickly changed the trajectory of his sword into the man's thigh. As the Whitehill's leg buckled, Gared removed his sword and stabbed through the middle of the man's chest. He clinically pulled his sword out, and stared down Britt and the one-handed soldier.

Both were pale-faced.

Gared batted aside the shield of the Whitehill he'd disarmed earlier, then stabbed him with such force that the sword went through his body, emerged on the other side to enter an unprepared Britt, and went through his ribcage.

"Gared! Help!" he heard from behind him. Turning, he saw the Whitehills having all but broken through the Forresters on the other end of the wall. The latter were at risk of routing, with the superior numbers driving them back. Every inch of the wall as won with blood and bone, but the Whitehills had the upper hand.

He looked all around him, watching as Whitehills emerged from every ladder and threatened to surround him. Then he cast a glance at Royland and Bloodsong, still manning the boiling oil and other weapons prepared for the attackers on the battering ram. He caught Royland's eye, and the older man gave him a pushing motion with both hands.

 _Wait._

As if on cue, the gate finally broke down with a terrific crack. Gared hadn't even noticed the battering ram, but it had done its work. A cheer went through the Whitehills ranks, and they rallied, forming a mass of swords. Preparing for a charge.

He pulled his sword from the pile of Whitehill bodies, and threw himself into the fray once more.

* * *

"Mother, I'm sick of being like you." Talia stood up despite her siblings' and mother's stares "You grew up a lady, and for what? You couldn't fight for your family, and now only Uncle Malcolm is left! What if the same happens to us? I want to learn to fight. I should. Even girls like me – I know I could learn to fight." She stared at her twin brother. "I bet I'd be better at swords than Ethan!"

"Me too!" chipped in Ryon. Lady Forrester surprisingly nodded at both her children.

"If we survive, you have my blessing to do so, Talia. But you need a teacher." She replied.

Talia nodded. "After the battle, I'll find the best of the pitfighters. He's going to teach me to fight like he does."

"If we survive." Lady Forrester interrupted. Ethan and Ryon watched the exchange between mother and daughter with great interest.

"If we survive." Talia agreed grimly.

* * *

Gared let go of his sword, the adrenaline fuelling his limbs exhausted.

By now, he had lost count of the number of Whitehills he had killed. The bodies were piling over the floor, and scuttling his footwork. The Whitehills were just too many. His own men held their own well, but there were less than thirty Forrester soldiers still standing. Some had retreated, wounded. Others weren't as lucky.

The Forresters had almost completely lost the first wall. From the right, a column of at least fifty Whitehills threatened to overload the Forresters, who had congregated there, while on their left a band of Forresters fought back-to-back to avoid encirclement. They were losing both fights – Gared held the right, but kept getting pushed back despite his best efforts. The Whitehills kept swapping injured men with fresh ones, preventing him from getting a clean kill. On the left, the Forresters were fighting their way out of the encirclement, but the screams told Gared the escape came costly.

"Royland, we need to pull back!" he shouted at the Forrester's Master of Arms over the noise of crashing shields and yelling men. The older man extended five fingers on one hand, and made out something with his mouth. It took Gared a few seconds to realise that he had said, "they're almost at the second gate".

Of course.

Royland was waiting for the Whitehills on the battering ram to commit to assaulting the second gate. Once that happened, they would be unable to escape the full brunt of projectiles and boiling water and oil prepared for them without abandoning the battering ram. The townspeople would then sally forth and hack away at the battering ram's supports, effectively turning it into a single large log obstructing the entrance.

"Hold the wall!" Gared called, with flagging strength. _Drive them back!_ He thought desperately as the Whitehills surged forward again. His shield arm felt like lead, and he couldn't tell whether he still had legs. The Forresters, interlocking shields, took the Whitehills and held. Roars of defiance rang out amongst his men.

"Hold the wall!" he shouted again. A deafening thud that could only have been the battering ram assaulting the second gate marked the second stage of Royland's plan. Gared began inching backwards, his men following him for every step. The Whitehills reformed their lines and their stances indicated the intention to charge.

"Hold wall!" cried Gared, as the Whitehills struck him with the momentum of sixty charging men.

"Pour!" screamed Royland above the din of it all. More screams, this time from terror, emanated from the Passage of Death. Gared could only fantasise the terrors of your skin burning off your flesh, metal ripping through your organs, your comrades screaming and twisting with the unnatural angles of dying men. Instead he fought for dear life as the Whitehills kept pushing the Forrester line back.

"Hold wall!" Something held onto his shoulder, and Gared was swiftly moved out of his position at the front, replaced by his comrades, then guided to the rear of the Forrester lines. He took care not to step on any bodies. Gared looked up to see the frightened brown eyes of one of his soldiers. The man pointed with his sword and indicated at the leftmost side of the wall.

The Whitehills had either killed every last Forrester there, or the latter had managed to escape. Either way, the left of the wall was fully taken. His rescuer seemed – it was so hard to tell – to be telling him what? Run?

"Holdwall!" Gared blurted out. He pointed at the intersection where the ceiling of the Passage of Death met the second wall. They couldn't afford to lose that. If they did, the Whitehills would surround them.

"Holdwall!" He cried once more, raising his increasingly heavy sword and pushing into the Whitehills. The rest of it was a blur. Gared could barely remember being able to see. He seemed to have cleaved through a surprising number of Whitehills, because his sword hand was completely numb and every muscle in his forearms seemed to have torn by the time he was done.

"Howall! Howall! Howall, howall. Howall. Howall." muttered Gared, falling to his knees in exhaustion. Royland put his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"You held the wall well, Gared. Fall back, and we'll take it from here." Royland raised his head to look at the pitfighters. Gared's effort to preserve their line of retreat seemed to have caused a general retreat, although not a total rout, amongst the Forresters. Fortunately, the second line of defense – the pitfighters under Bloodsong and the six foot tall giant only known as the Beast – had completed their first task of burning down the battering ram. That would foil any further attempts to breach the second gate.

They were now doing their job of a fighting retreat to the second wall well – almost too well. The Whitehills seemed jarred by the second wave of even more ferocious defenders, but a rout was too much to hope for. Not with Ludd and Torrhen watching their backs.

"Pull back! Remember the plan! Pull back to the second wall, and leave no man behind!"

* * *

 _The liberals were scared. The thousands of Clinton supporters gathered at Javits centre were sullen, silent. No more cheering. No more talk of breaking the glass ceiling. Ohio voted for Trump, landing him another 18 electoral votes. Donald Trump was overperforming in polls everywhere. Michigan was right beside Ohio, and Clinton needed Michigan. The entire atmosphere was talking about what Clinton had to win, rather than what Trump needed to win._

 _Virginia voting for Clinton was a minor disappointment, but Trump took it in his stride. "How's New Hampshire?" he asked a staffer. The man (no women in his office, of course) gave him a broad smile and two thumbs up. "We're confident we've got this."_

 _Trump grinned even wider. That grin got a bit smaller when Colorado and its 9 electoral votes went to Clinton too._ Might as well check on Florida again _, the Donald thought. He changed the website from the New York Times' latest projection of Clinton's path to victory into the Guardian. A notification indicated that the page ought to be refreshed. Trump clicked, and the page loaded. What he saw amazed even himself. He stood up in the midst of the dozen or so people in the "war room"._

" _Folks! Folks! We got Florida! We've got Florida people! We've got Florida!"_

* * *

The first line of defense having been successfully evacuated to the second wall, the pitfighters then began falling back cautiously, and even then only after exhausting their supply of projectiles and boiling water, sand and oil on the unfortunate Whitehills carrying the battering ram. It was difficult to estimate casualties in battle, but Royland felt certain that the Whitehills casualties were mounting.

While Gared and his men were still holding the first wall, the Glenmore guards had no desire to loose arrows that could result in friendly fire. With the former safely removed from the battle, the marksmen of the Forrester army had no such qualms.

The effects were devastating.

Firing upon the Whitehills on the ceiling of the Passage of Death from either side, the Glenmores felled so many men that the Whitehills started resorting to hauling corpses and throwing them off the battlements to provide space. The bad news for the Whitehills did not end there.

The stubbornness of Gared Tuttle's defense had done what Rodrik and himself had planned earlier – forcing Ludd to commit the bulk of his army to assaulting the walls, while neglecting the gate. The logic was that Ludd under-committing soldiers to the walls would leave his men assaulting the gate vulnerable, because the Forresters controlling the wall meant that they had free reign to unleash all the weapons they had on the unfortunate men on the ram.

But by reversing the order, the gate would be preserved. And the numbers on the wall would ensure that the Forresters would win anyway, except without the risk of the gate breaking down and a capture of Ironrath.

Ludd was an experienced commander, and his reasoning was sound. Save for the fact that he clearly underestimated the Forresters true strength.

 _Always a deadly mistake to make_ , thought Royland. _My family was like that too, once._ He charged towards the front ranks of the pitfighters, and threw himself into the fray. The sight that greeted him reminded him of the one time he'd seen Dornish spearmen performing their ritual dance.

Bloodsong was drawing corpses on the wall with an ink that was Whitehill blood.

Imagine the edge of a chariot wheel moving, at great speed. Now imagine that wheel, but two metres long with a sharp end and moving through more trajectories and angles than you could ever imagine.

That would not give justice to how Bloodsong fought with his glaive. The pitfighter swung his glaive as if it was an extension of himself, the thick blade removing heads from shoulders, hands from arms, and legs from bodies. He would cause the Whitehills to compress backwards, then a barrage of arrows would make them loosen formation again, only for his glaive to tear them apart once more.

He simultaneously attacked and defended, that mark of an extremely skilled fighter. With one movement he effortlessly parried, ripped apart a man's jaw, and opened up the defence of another Whitehill. When the Whitehills covered the heads with their shields, he'd hack at their shins. If they protected their shins he would tears their heads off. A final desperate attempt to hide their entire body behind their own shields would be met with a glaive swing so strong that the shield would be torn vertically into two, often with a few fingers or a hand removed.

The other pitfighters seemed to rally around this hurricane of a man, exploiting the gaps he opened to isolate and murder a Whitehill soldier caught out of formations. The Beast in particular closed in incredibly fast, all the more so for a man of his size.

While having far less grace than Bloodsong, if Bloodsong was the manifestation of men like Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy, the Beast was Ser Gregor Clegane reborn. He would stay beyond the reach of the Whitehills, then move in after Bloodsong attacked and stun a foe with paralysing force using his mace.

Several times, Royland had to call for a retreat while violently dissecting a foe's torso in order to prevent friendly fire. The Glenmore guards seemed scarcely bothered – the arrows flew straight and true, and there wasn't an arrow he could see not lodged inside a man bearing the insignia of a barren hill.

The battle nearly became a rhythm. The Whitehills would huddle close to each other, overlapping shields, but somehow the Glenmores would find gaps or simply shoot through the shields and down a few men. As soon as they were felled, the pitfighters exploited the gaps left by the casualties and initiate a slaughter.

The longer the battle wore on, the more the already exhausted and disheartened Whitehills suffered. The more they suffered, the more men they lost. The more of their own they lost, the lower their morale fell. Royland almost managed to behead two Whitehills in a single stroke, his blade ending up stuck in the man's neck, when a cheer sang out amongst the Whitehills.

Their bitter enemies retreated and reformed their lines. The Beast looked ready to pursue them, but Royland reached up and grabbed the larger man's shoulder. The Beast merely looked down at him and grunted. Even the Glenmores stopped firing.

 _He_ was here.

The heir to House Whitehill.

* * *

 _The past four hours had been insane, even for a man used to the spotlight as Trump was. He had begun the evening certain that he was going to watch his campaign end at the hands of Hillary Clinton. But he'd been winning a_ lot _. He'd won Florida, alongside almost every battleground state, and all the Republican states. What had begun as a night to coronate the first woman president had turned into a nightmare for the Democrats, and a dream materialised for Trump._

 _Hawaii voted for Clinton, but North Carolina and Idaho voting for him more than offset that. North Carolina especially had demoralised the Democrats greatly. Even CNN, Clinton propaganda that it was, reported the fall in spirits. Trump shifted through the channel rapidly, and his children knew better than to protest. The snippets of speech sounded like,_

" _Eyes are glued to the TVs around the Javits Center in New York, where_ _Hillary Clinton_ _is due to speak later, as the returns roll in showing a much closer than expected race."_

" _The mood has dropped markedly. Where supporters started the night with the wind at their backs,"_

" _...But it was North Carolina that really sent shivers down the spines of her supporters and staff."_

" _...hardly a whisper from the thousands of people..."_

 _Clinton managed to secure both Washington and Oregon, but both states weren't part of Trump's strategy. The New York Times, for once, made an observation worth noting._

" _Clinton hasn't won anywhere where she has not been expected to win."_

 _Trump had dedicated an entire page each to websites tracking the results from Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania – which increasingly looked like they were turning red. He noted Georgia_ _turning red, and added another 16 electoral votes for himself. Utah followed quickly after. Six more votes._

 _The liberals were finally realising that their defeat was at hand. Trump watched the channels. Everywhere that a conservative celebrated and chanted, "Make America Great Again", elsewhere was a liberal in tears. They were going to lose. And they knew it. Trump grinned very, very widely._

 _Suddenly, his world went blurry. Trump blinked, and tried to wake up, but the blurriness only worsened. Scared, Trump opened his mouth to call out, but no one would hear him. His eyes closed and his breathing slowed, as if compelled by a supernatural force._

* * *

A short time later, Trump woke up. On hard, cold soil. He stood up and looked around. He could tell he wasn't anywhere that he recognised. He seemed to be in a mountain range of some kind. Both in front and behind him were an unbroken line of short mountains, steep enough to be impossible to climb. The ground all about him was grassless and roadless, cluttered with hard stones.

But there was one thing that caught his eye.

In the distance was a large wall. It looked as if it were made out of wood, but was an impressive thirty feet or so tall. Surely there would be people there?

"You know, that wall could be better," Trump said to himself, as he walked towards the building. "Like look. You see that? It's wood. It's bad. It's terrible. It's really, really bad. Nobody, absolutely nobody, uses wood, let me tell you that..."

* * *

Torrhen Whitehill was tall – almost as tall as the Beast. He was heavily built on the upper body, bulky frame burgeoning with thick muscles underneath. His armour, a full plate rarely seen in the North, covered almost every portion of his body except for the insides of his thighs. His face was red and furious, facial muscles tightening with anger to form lines that made him looked aged beyond his years.

He bellowed at the withering Whitehills, who looked tired if not outright exhausted, and about rout. His voice was carping and annoying, with all the arrogance inherited from his father.

"Form a shieldwall, you fools! No one retreats under my orders!" For a moment, a few Whitehills closest to the Forresters persisted in taking steps backwards, which meant they had almost been pushed back to the first wall. Another shout from Torrhen to "Form or I'll have your heads!" His men unwillingly moved back into a tortoise formation, shields covering every space.

"Spear wall! Everyone, form up to me!" shouted Royland. He sensed a shift in the battle. It was slowing down, as the Whitehills near-rout had turned into a resolute rally. He had hoped the Whitehills would rout as soon as the pitfighters engaged them, but Torrhen's presence had invoked some steel into their spines. Now, the worry was to prevent a successful Whitehill counterattack that would force them all the way back to the second wall.

Royland knew that Gared and the former sellswords who had held the first wall had routed any crossbowmen the Whitehills had – indeed, when it came to missiles, the Glenmore guards were virtually uncontested. That meant there was no danger in tightening up the ranks of his poorly armoured pitfighters.

As both his men and that of the Whitehills formed up, Royland glanced backwards at the Glenmores. He found Arthur Glenmore, who raised 3 fingers. _Three more volleys,_ he thought. _Looks like we're going to have to do this the hard way._

"Advance!" boomed Torrhen. The Whitehills took three steps forwards, until their shields met the mostly spear-armed Forrester pitfighters. The Whitehill men in front ducked underneath their shields and crouched to lower their centre of gravity.

"Spear wall, men!" shouted Royland. "Make 'em pay for this ground with their lives!" The Forrester pitfighters had years of experience in life-or-death combat that the Whitehill soldiers did not. In the pit, they learned to dodge attacks at all costs, or lose a limb, or worse. The Whitehills were too used to having armour and shield for protection, and that meant their timing was not as sharp as the pitfighters'.

"Push! No one breaks! No one runs! No one flees!" bellowed Torrhen to his wavering men.

The mismatch in skill began to show as the pitfighters feinted and thrusted at the Whitehills, who pushed at the polearms with their shields. Time and time again, a Whitehill would push forward at a Forrester, about to gain ground, then another spear would lash out and hew through his chest, neck, face or arms. Screams of pain and yells of satisfaction were heard as Whitehills flesh and blood strewed Ironrath's walls anew.

When the front ranks of Whitehills were felled or retreated, they were replaced by those at the back, but almost no Whitehill stood upon those walls without a grievous injury, or terrible thirst, or quivering limbs. Even when they covered each other with their shields, an arrow would always fell one of them, and a Whitehill would have to step on the body of his dying or dead companion to preserve the compactness of the formation. The horror of climbing the walls and breaking through the berserk Forrester squire's men, then watching their own massacred by arrows, glaive and spear was too much to bear.

The voice of Torrhen Whitehill alone kept them from routing.

"No one breaks! No one runs! No one - ," and the constant voice of their commander was suddenly gone. A brief, pause resonated throughout the Whitehill ranks. A rallying cry went up through the pitfighters, and suddenly the spears tips were evading the shields and entering Whitehills flesh. Those in the front who did not immediately die turned and fled, and those backing them up took heed. A sense of organisation might have been maintained, had not one Whitehill turned his back and looked towards their camp.

The Whitehill camp was on fire. They could see the smoke from half a mile away. Royland, amongst the surging Forrester pitfighters, watched the Whitehills look back, point, look towards the Forresters, and finally at each other.

The Whitehill formation distintegrated in spectacular form.

They pushed over each other and stomped on the corpses of old comrades. Some were weeping, others screaming, more too tired to do anything but turn and run. One Whitehills held his ground, opposing the flight of his comrades like a rock against the tide. He screamed obscenities at them to hold – hold their ground! But he was pushed aside by Whitehill shields, then torn apart by Forrester spears.

Screams and shouts and roars and yells. Forresters charged through Whitehill ranks, stabbing and chopping, slicing and hewing. The Whitehills fled only until the first wall, where they were forced to descend from the ladders. The pushing and shoving withheld anyone from safely climbing down, and a few threw themselves off the wall before the spears of the pitfighters ripped their backs apart.

And then they looked down at the wall, and saw the cause of their camp burning down.

Rodrik Forrester was leading another group of pitfighters towards the walls. They recognised him not by his scarred features, they were too far away for that. No, they knew it was him from the way he cut down the retreating Whitehills down. The tales of the Forrester firstborn son who could handle a greatsword with the agility of a Braavosi fencer and the brutality of Ser Ilyn Payne were true.

Ludd Whitehill was a speck in the distance, riding on a horse. Hillary Clinton had disappeared. And Torrhen, poor Torrhen, they thought. It must have been an arrow, he was so far at the back.

They were outflanked, outnumbered, and leaderless.

"Leave none of them alive!" called Royland amidst the struggle. "Take no prisoners!" His orders were delightfully carried out by the bloodthirsty pitfighters. They pushed several scores of surviving Whitehills into an extremely compressed space at the left of the first wall. So tightly were the Whitehills squeezed that bodies of living and dead were stomped upon.

Men climbed upon each other to evade the spears. Comrades became corpses in each others' arms. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth as grown men became wailing infants, embracing death as children do their parents. They screamed for the wives they left at home, lovers discarded, vows unfulfilled, the parents they would no longer feed, siblings who would greet them in the presence of the old gods, children they would never meet. And when the inevitable thrust of the spear came, they hushed, made their peace with the old gods. And waited to die.

They did not have to wait long.

From afar, Royland counted the numbers of Whitehills who remained standing on those walls. He started counting slowly, only saying the number aloud after every ten deaths.

"Fifty. Forty. Thirty." The figure of Rodrik Forrester appeared from one of the ladders on the right side of the wall, and so did Beskha and Amaya, and all the pitfighters who had taken part in the razing of the Whitehill camp. They charged at the Whitehills.

"Twenty five, nineteen, fifteen," The Whitehills weren't even trying to survive. Some put their hands together in prayer, beseeching both the Seven and the old gods to grant them a quick death, and a kind afterlife. Others shouted curses at their fellows and the pathetic gestures of praying, choosing instead to look at their killers in the eyes. Still a few others screamed and bellowed, and resting on the corpses beside them were hushed men, who closed their eyes and accepted their fate.

"Six, three, one." The last living Whitehill of the battle of Ironrath screeched aloud. It was an eldritch screech, high-pitched like that of a woman from the South, a despairing, sad "ahhhh" of a mortal soul who could not accept his departure. Against his will, a spear penetrated his neck, and his scream became but a sad whimper. With the last moments of his life, the soul made peace with the imminence of death.

None.

* * *

The walls of Ironrath ran crimson with the flight of life from the bodies of men.

Ironrath stank of the dead. Seventeen Forresters had lost their lives on the battlements, and took with them nearly two hundred Whitehills. For all strategic purposes, it was an overwhelming Forrester victory. That did little to sooth the small folk and soldiers alike.

For Donald Trump was gone.

And not "dead", even though there were enough witnesses to the crossbow bolts that had pierced his great heart.

They couldn't find a body.

In the immediate aftermath of the battle, Trump's corpse was not found where he had fallen. Searches around the walls, later extended to encompass all of Ironrath, failed to bear fruit. Donald Trump was just – gone.

Gared Tuttle had sworn on his honour that he was there when Trump breathed his last, and that the Donald had not resurrected and walked during the battle. More curious reports from the survivors of the defenders of the first wall insisted that Trump's body was not found where he was killed during the first few minutes of the battle. Other conflicting reports suggested the Whitehills had thrown his body off the battlements to make space, but surely such an act would have been noticed?

Further questioning yielded only more questions. Did Trump die? That much was certain. If so – where is he now? It was well known by now that Donald Trump had arrived in Westeros through means unknown to both himself or the Forresters. Could he return to this "New York" that he came from just as mysteriously?

Rodrik Forrester did not know – after all, he was not there himself. The Lord of Ironrath was focused more on the aftermath of the Battle of Ironrath. There were prisoners to tie up, bodies to burn, and battlements to clear of arrows and other weapons.

More importantly, he knew that Ludd Whitehill had been dealt a grievous blow. With the destruction of practically the entire Whitehill army, Highpoint was vulnerable to attack. There had never been a better time to resolve the ancient Forrester-Whitehill struggle.

He sent a raven to Duncan and Mira, anxiously awaiting news of the battle, in King's Landing, beckoning them to return to Ironrath. Now that Forrester military superiority was assured, the Ironwood trade with King's Landing was secure and Duncan Tuttle would be better reassigned to managing the scarce resources Ironrath had in store.

Winter was coming. And the maesters of other Northern lords had sent him word of warning that it would, to quote one letter, "be the coldest and longest one in a thousand years."

 _The Long Night, two-point-zero. Just like the original Long Night, but twice as long!_

"Ethan, what are you writing?" Rodrik found himself asking.

"Um er, nothing!" replied Ethan Forrester. He quickly drew a line across that not-so-poetic line. "I'll just, er, find Talia or something. We're twins, you know. I bet she's beating up a Whitehill or two."

"Sure." Rodrik replied. He mentally went through his to-do list. _Recall Duncan and Mira to Ironrath. Have Duncan replenish our winter supplies. Take Royland and the pitfighters to Highpoint and invade. Get a new maester. Tell Lord Glenmore Elaena and I consummated our marriage. Interrogate the Whitehill prisoners..._

* * *

 _Bish!_ Went the Whitehill's cheek as Talia hit him for the fourth time. "Owie, little girl, that didn't hurt one bit!" the man replied. His fellow prisoners beside him, all tied up in ropes and waiting for their turn to suffer the new-fangled Forrester interrogation method of pouring water over their faces, laughed in spite of their predicament. They stopped laughing once the feared yellow-skinned pitfighter approached. The yellow-skinned man pulled the bound offender by his neck, then kneed him in the chest so hard the latter's ribcage could be heard breaking.

The Whitehill gasped for air in pain. He was still lucky he could even gasp for air in the first place. The Whitehills on the wall had completely routed, and slaughtered to the last man. The ones who had attacked the gate, however, were still alive and had been taken prisoner by Arthur Glenmore on behalf of Rodrik.

Bloodsong turned to the young girl. "Don't strike him with your bare fists – they'll break. Kick, or elbow. Your choice." He said bluntly.

Talia nodded at him, then turned to the unfortunate Whitehill. This time, she raised her elbow to strike his head. Again, Bloodsong turned to her and made horizontal swinging motions with his elbow.

"Don't strike like that. You'll dislocate the shoulder." He corrected her stance, then stood back. Talia drew herself back, then jerked her body such that her elbow landed onto the Whitehill's cheekbone. The instantaneous spark of pain jolted her entire arm. She felt like she had broken some kind of bone. The Whitehill visibly winced with hurt, but remained conscious. Behind her, Bloodsong snorted.

"You should've raised your elbow higher! There are two bones in the elbow. One is the hardest bone in your whole body. The other breaks easily. You want to hit with the stronger inside bone, not the weak one!" He shook his head at Talia, who glared at him.

Pushing expressions of pain from her face, Talia put on a graceful and authoritative decorum befitting the sister of the Lord of Ironrath.

"You're the best of the pitfighters from across the Narrow Sea, are you not?" She asked. Bloodsong shrugged, sighing as he looked to one side and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he replied.

"It all depends on your definition of that word, child. If you ask who can kill a man in the least time, with any weapon? I'm your man. But if you're looking for a teacher in my arts, you'd best find another." Talia shook her head at him.

"My family would be willing to provide you accommodation, food, and pay for your services."

This time Bloodsong turned and glared at her. He rose to his full height, and looked down on the young Forrester. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with hurt and suffering.

"You think it's fun to kill, child? You think you'll pick up a sword, and be able to cut down men as if you were chopping wood? No." He stalked forward towards her. "Killing is terrible. You become a warrior like I am, and the only thing you can expect is killing. You do it against whoever your masters make you fight."

Talia looked like she was about to protest, when Bloodsong continued.

"You win and you win, and all you can find in there is suffering. After every battle, every kill, I drink my sorrows away. It's like a beast eating away at my soul. My first kill, ten years ago, I did not think I would remember him. But ten years on, today, he haunts my days and my nights. The drink helps. For a while. Then it begins again."

"What begins?" asked Talia inquisitively. Bloodsong's voice became deeper and darker.

"I fight, I tire, I sing and drink. I sleep. Sometimes I am spared, and I wake up the next day without dreaming. On most nights, that man, my first kill, appears. Sometimes he screams at me as he lies dying, twitching, dying, dies. Other nights, he takes a sword, a mace, knife, anything. He stabs my skull, and rips my stomach open! He lets me see my family again, and kills them one by one. He whispers my name into my ear."

"Do you know his name?" asked Talia. Bloodsong shook his head.

"I know not who he was. Just that I had to kill him, or I die. But I killed him once." Bloodsong locked eyes with Talia. "In my dreams, he has killed me hundreds of times. That is killing, child. Do not follow my path."

"I need to know how to protect myself!" Talia rebutted.

"That is not the same as killing!" retorted Bloodsong. "You want to live? You run. People who run have no honour, but at least they are alive. People who fight and die have no honour, and no life. No one remembers the dead. My own family! I don't even remember."

"I can't run." Talia shook her head vigorously at the pitfighter. "My place is here, in Ironrath. I just need to know how to defend myself. What if the Whitehills, or Boltons, attacked my family and me? What if Rodrik or Asher is not there?

"I'm sick and tired of other people saving my life. I'm ready to do it myself." She looked straight into Bloodsong's eyes. "I _need_ the training."

Bloodsong sighed, and looked away from the young Forrester. He cast a long, sweeping glance across the scene around him. His fellow pitfighters drinking and singing songs and cries of victory in the distance. A dark, melancholy hallway filled with Whitehill prisoners sitting on the ground, loitering, each guarded by a Forrester soldier. In his mind's eye, the neatly symmetrical architecture of his hometown, so far away in the East that even the people of Slaver's Bay had difficulty comprehending its location.

He looked at Talia once more. "You are prepared to sacrifice your body and mind for this?" He asked.

Talia Forrester nodded once. "I am."

Sighing, Bloodsong shook his head. "Fine. I will teach you. But I am not to blame for your injuries. Now, what weapon would you want to learn to use first?"

* * *

"Ryon, go and play in the Great Hall. We're burning the bodies outside Ironrath." Said Lady Forrester from the battlements of the first wall of Ironrath, to her youngest son. When her son did not reply, she repeated her order.

Still, Ryon Forrester gave no response.

Irked, Lady Forrester raised her voice, "Ryon, the bodies will smell very bad. This is not a place for little children. Go, and play in the Great Hall."

Ryon gave her a defiant glance. "I'm not a little child anymore, mother."

Confused, she asked, "What are you talking about? You're seven Ryon. You're not old enough to see this. If it makes you feel better, neither are Ethan or Talia."

"No mother! I just... I don't feel like being treated as a little kid anymore. I want to learn how to fight like the adults can."

* * *

Rodrik walked into the Lord's bedroom that he shared with Elaena. It was an old bedroom, home to generations of Forresters, who for years beyond counting had defended the Ironwood grove he had spent so much of his childhood playing in.

As expected, Elaena was waiting inside for him. He usually felt at ease talking to Elaena. Childhood friends are not easy to keep, but she always seemed to find common interests with him. Memories of days long past spent hiding and catching one another in the grove, which evolved into partying as they got old enough to do so, flashed through his mind. He remembered the first time he had dared to hold her hand, and she let him. She had returned his smile with her own.

Then, her meeting with him about their marriage, when Trump was away in King's Landing. _I loved the boy you were, and I can love the man you are_ , she had said.

They were so close. They had been through so much. Would she back out – after all that they'd done together?

"Elaena," Rodrik began. The love of his life turned to him with a smile on her face. "there's something I'd like to talk to you about."

Sensing his discomfort, Elaena smiled at him. "Anything, Rodrik."

"I was wondering. If I marry you, then I replace Arthur as your father's heir to the House of Glenmore, do I not?" He gulped. Elaena had always been looked down by her father for being a firstborn daughter, and this was the reason why.

"Ah." Her brow furrowed.

Silence ensued.

"Rodrik, I don't know if you took a hard knock recently, but that's not how House Glenmore's line of succession works. Blood sons take absolute precedence over blood daughters, and blood daughters take precedence over their husbands. My father's seat is perfectly safe."

 _Since when have I become so stupid?_ Rodrik asked himself. Well, he did practically leave control of his house to Donald Trump. "So there shouldn't be any reason for your father to prevent us from marrying?"

Elaena got up, walked towards him. She put her hands on his shoulders, and leaned in for a kiss. "Of course not."

* * *

The next day, a raven arrived from Asher. Rodrik uncrumpled the letter in its beak, and the bird squawked, "NEVERMORE!" loudly before flying off. He began to read the letter.

" _Rodrik, it's me, Asher._

 _Remember that woman I told you about? She returned alone from Ironrath, on a horse. Ludd came back later, also alone. They fought, and she killed Ludd. I saw it all. Am restraining her right now. Come quickly._

 _Asher"_

Rodrik gaped at the letter. He began calling for his family and advisors to gather in the Great Hall. In a matter of minutes, smallfolk were rushing around trying to find Royland, the pitfighters, and Arthur Glenmore and his men. Somehow, Donald Trump's management had left the smallfolk being far more efficient. Rodrik merely had to sit and wait.

Soon is a relative word, but this time the everyone on his now not-very-small small council had gathered. His mother. Elaena, who now insisted on following council meetings. Royland, his sentinel. His pitfighters, including Beskha, Amaya, Bloodsong, and the hulking giant only known as the Beast. Finally, Arthur Glenmore and his elite guard arrived. It was getting very crowded inside the Great Hall, with close to fifty people in one place. Rodrik wasted no time on preamble. He stood up and spoke.

"I've received a raven this morning from Asher. He's been in Highpoint in the past few weeks, spying on the enemy for us. The letter's short, but it states that that woman who murdered Ser Donald has also murdered Ludd Whitehill." At this point, murmurs broke out amongst the pitfighters.

"That's the enemy, right?" one of them said.

"Why did our enemy kill another of the enemy?" asked another, confused.

"That's what I intend to find out." Rodrik replied, reasserting his control over the discussion. "I'm taking the Beskha and the pitfighters to Highpoint. Royland, you take charge of Ironrath while I'm gone. You have every man in the keep under your order."

"Understood, sir." Royland bowed his head dutifully.

"Rodrik, I'm coming with you." Lady Forrester quickly said. Rodrik suppressed a sigh, knowing that he would never be able to force her to stay at Ironrath.

He looked for Elaena, and was reassured to see her looking back at him. Her eyes winked at him playfully, as if to say she knew better than to ask to come to Ironrath with him. Her eyes flashed towards her brother, who was grinning at the sight of his sister and brother-in-law flirting.

"Finally, Arthur. I'm releasing you and your men from my service. You fought bravely, shot accurately, and your efforts will be remembered for years. Smallfolk will sing of the Glenmore archers who kept finding holes between Whitehill ranks. You must all be tired. You are free to return home, to your families and your lord. Tell your father that Elaena and I are officially married now. And that she seems to enjoy staying in Ironrath quite a bit."

Rodrik looked at Elaena teasingly whilst saying the last sentence. She responded with a playful gagging motion. Rodrik then raised his voice, and spoke again.

"Prepare for winter! For as all men know, winter is coming. And walk tall, for you are the victors of the Battle of Ironrath!"

Arthur looked touched. He smiled broadly, and bowed his head at Rodrik.

"Thank you, Rodrik." He said. Rodrik raised his fist into the air and shouted.

"The war is almost over! And House Forrester has won! We have destroyed the Whitehill army! All that remains is to accept their surrender!"

The Great Hall started cheering for Arthur, for the Glenmores, for the Forresters, and for the great victory that had been the Battle of Ironrath.

"Fight for the Forresters, fight for the good!" they sang. "Fight for the Forresters, and the Ironwood!"

* * *

The Great Hall, Highpoint, two days after the Battle of Ironrath

A blonde, old woman sat on a large, ornamented seat typically reserved for the Lords of House Whitehill, slurping warm soup. The Great Hall of Highpoint was much better furnished than that of Ironrath's, with exotic furs from unknown creatures from Essos, paintings of flayed men by Bolton artists, and various other antique craftwork filling the otherwise vacant and silent hall. It was strangely lonely and quiet.

If only Ludd didn't commit to an attack. That bigot.

All her life, this old woman had defied the sexist expectations of men who put a glass ceiling over here. And she's broken glass ceiling after glass ceiling. She entered Yale Law School at a time when women could not have abortions. She worked for Barry Goldwater at a time when sexism was so rife, women working was looked down upon. She'd campaigned for Presidents back in the days when blonde, white women like her would be called stupid for no reason but being blonde and white.

She married a man who would become Senator, then President. She worked incessantly, and against sexist barriers by men, against political opponents, and against a culture that denigrated women, to fight for women's rights as First Lady. She would see her husband accused of countless charges of sexual assault, rape, cheating, and improper conduct with dozens of women by the political party she'd grown up supporting. She stuck by his side, and survived political attack after political attack. She watched her country descend into chaos under the son of the President before her husband.

Those sexists.

She arose as a leader to restore her beloved country eight years ago, but was robbed of her own political party's nomination, the party whose most experienced and senior personnel were her closest friends, by a male no-name senator with an Arabic name. Yes. Her party nominated a black man with an Arabic name after 9/11 rather than the best First Lady in history. Even then, she still served the country as a Secretary of State with a distinguished record.

It took another eight years before she would get another chance to become President. The woman was touched by how many rallied to her cause – to become the first female President in US history. Wall Street and Main Street alike united to choose her as their President – their Madame President. But even then, a male no-name (again?) senator with a Jewish name would try to usurp her rightful place as nominee of the Democratic Party from her. And how close he came. There were times when the woman who had been at the apex of the Democratic Party for over thirty years was defeated by a man who had just joined for a year.

Those deplorables.

It had taken all the tricks up her sleeve to beat him, but finally she did. And now she had won the Democratic nomination, and was winning the Presidential election. The polls said so, didn't they? Scores of polls, and all but a handful gave her the edge. She was winning, against the most sexist, bigoted, xenophobic, racist man ever. How fitting, that her long battle against sexism should come by victory against such a homophobe.

It was the eve of the 8th of November when Hillary Rodham Clinton woke up, not in her comfortable bed, but on a cold stone floor. She had woken up in a strange land called "The North". Well, the northern states should be voting Democratic, so Hillary Clinton was pretty convinced this land should be friendly to her as well. Conveniently, she bumped into Bernie Sanders a few minutes after waking up. And like the good subservient sell-out he was, he introduced her to the ruler of the castle she was in. Ludd Whitehill.

Conveniently, there was a war brewing. Conveniently, she encouraged him to go to war. If Ludd had died, but his army survived, then the powers of the House of Whitehill would fall to her. They were apparently fighting some people called "The Forresters". Back in the US there was a Lady Forester de Rothschild who contributed significant amounts of money to her presidential campaign, but Sanders reassured her that there was no relation.

But she'd just watched the Whitehills destroyed by the Forresters. And to think that the Whitehills were the strongest power in this part of the North, as Ludd had assured her. Hillary Clinton, just as she did in Benghazi, avoided responsibility and stayed safe while others died for her.

A knock on the door. How rude. Must be a man.

"Come in!" she called.

Bernie Sanders walked into the Great Hall. Her political rival had seemed to be completely oblivious to the events of their primaries campaigns. He had not divulged more, but it seemed that his last memory was campaigning for the California primaries. Hah. Better to keep him in the dark about the eventual outcome of the primaries.

"Hillary," that arrogant man started, "I heard you returned to Ironrath alone. Where is the army?"

Well, dead. But Hillary Clinton had not lasted over three decades in politics without learning how to twist the truth.

"Well, what can I say? Every time there is war, you know, victory is uh, never easy. You have to fight to win, if you know what I'm saying. And it's especially harder to invade than to defend. But as far as I'm concerned we are well aware of any incoming developments and are well-positioned to respond to them as they come."

"Hillary, you said that when we pulled out of Iraq and Afghanistan. As well as when we chose to do nothing about Syria. And when we decided to create a no-fly zone in Libya And now there's ISIS and a refugee crisis the Middle East!"

A man shouting at a woman. How sexist. It should be the other way around, that's more fair.

"You see, not everything goes our way, whenever we want it to. And with my experience in politics, I think I understand how it feels to have some things not go, you know, our way. And that's fine. The thing is, sometimes when things don't go our way because of the bad decisions of other people..."

"What bad decisions?"

"To start off, Ludd changed our plans. Due to reasons relating to unexpected circumstantial changes on site, we had to abandon the idea of a quick assault and siege instead. So I thought, you know, this is no place for a woman to be. So I left early. I did have the only fresh horse in the entire army, you know." Hillary finished.

"Sorry Hillary, but that's not possible. Ludd and his army didn't have the supplies for an extended campaign. They had enough for a month at most, and that deprived House Whitehill of most of her bread supplies. The idea was to scare House Forrester into returning Gryff and restart peace negotiations, not war! He must have assaulted Ironrath, or else he would have returned with his army."

"Fine! Fact check me, and you'll find that I've been right all along. I did leave early! And Ludd did change his plans!"

"No that's not what," Sanders interrupted, only for Clinton to defy his male dominance by continuing.

"It is what happened!" Clinton raised her voice.

"Then where is the army?" Sanders shouted.

"It happened, I'm telling you, it did," replied Clinton, standing from her throne and wagging a finger at Sanders.

"Where is the army?" repeated Sanders, approaching her now.

"The truth is out there for you to fact-check! I did leave early!" Clinton shrieked.

"Where is the army then? How can two hundred men and a battering ram disappear like that?"

"Look at this mansplaining," Clinton cried as she threw her hands in the air in disgust, "it happened, I left early, whether you're happy or not..."

"Where is..."

"... the army?" That last voice was not Sanders or Clinton.

"The army's fucking deader than Torrhen." continued a wounded, bloody, and near-collapsing Ludd Whitehill, who had just entered the Great Hall. "And what the fuck are you doing on my seat?"

Sanders and Clinton simultaneously gasped at how poorly Ludd looked. His armour that he seemed to always wear was torn and seeping with blood. He was avoiding putting pressure on his right left, which was twisted at a grotesquely unnatural angle. The other leg was steadier, but bleeding profusely with all the traits of a vital artery having been breached. His upper body looked better, but his left hand was missing a thumb and index finger. His face was cut at the forehead, and crimson swabs covered the rest of it. His eyebrows looked maroon with blood, and he blinked constantly to clear blood from his field of vision.

"Sure, we had plans for a short siege. But what I sure as fuck wasn't counting on was on you," he pointed at Clinton with his remaining index finger, "to order my men to fucking shoot Donald fucking Trump!"

"Donald's dead?" breathed Bernie.

"And you're going to be, too," snarled Ludd Whitehill as he hobbled at Hillary. With his good hand he reached for her throat. But Hillary Clinton hadn't endured so many ridiculous accusations, attacks, and threats without learning how to defend herself. She threw an overextended right cross at Ludd's bloody forehead.

The crippled Lord of Highpoint fell backwards and struck his head hard on the cold, wooden floor.

"Where did you learn that?" cried the startled Bernie Sanders.

"Oh, I fought for black rights and Muhammad Ali thanked me, you know." Clinton said as she waited for her assaulter to get back up.

 _Round 1: Sexist 0, Feminist 10!_

"Don't lie, Hillary. You never fought for black rights. You called black males 'super predators'." Sanders rebutted.

"Okay, I watched WWE in my free time as First Lady. That's how I got to beat up Bill when I wasn't happy with him."

"What?" asked Sanders, wondering if he misheard the last sentence.

Ludd opened his eyes. It met Hillary Clinton's eyes. Clinton stomped on his face with her shoe.

 _Round 2: Sexist KO! We have a winner! It's former First Lady, Secretary of State, the best woman of all time, Madam President, Hillary Rodham Clinton!_

"Hillary! What are you doing?" cried Bernie Sanders. "Cut that out!"

 _Cut that out?_ Hillary wondered. _I'm pretty sure I told Wall Street that before the 2008 financial crisis_.

"By the old gods, what have you done?" cried another voice. That was male and wasn't Sanders. Too many males. Must have more women in leadership positions.

"Asher Forrester?" Sanders said, surprised. Clinton wasn't familiar with the name. Must be some kind of nobody... oh.

"What have you done?" an angry blonde white man(who had burst out seemingly out of nowhere) roared at her. Sexist, homophobic, bigot. He was just like stereotypical Trump supporter. "Put your hands over your head or I'll kill you!"

Mansplaining, lazy, dumb white from a flyover state who was probably inbred. Fine. That sword at her throat was pretty convincing. She'd raise her hands today, but when she returned to the United States of America she would be doing it after the election. In victory.

* * *

Five days after the Battle of Ironrath, Highpoint

"I'm telling you, this is all a big misunderstanding. And if we uh, work out our differences as I'm sure all civilised people do, we'll find that we, um, we er actually have a lot more in common, than we thought we did. So if we just talked things out, then we could..."

Hillary Clinton suddenly looked lost, as if she lost her train of thoughts.

"...Uhh..."

Asher Forrester glared at the stuttering captive.

"...stop things from going up an upward spiral."

Even to Hillary's ears, that didn't sounds convincing.

"Bernie, I'm going to go outside and open the gates for Rodrik. Gwyn, can you stay with Ser Bernie?" Asher said. Bernie Sanders and Gwyn Whitehill nodded their affirmations, and Asher Forrester left the Great Hall of Highpoint for the gates.

For the past three days, Highpoint had been empty of soldiers. Only the servants, Torrhen's family, Gwyn, Asher, and the two foreigners with strange accents stayed in Highpoint now that practically the entire Whitehill military strength had been wiped out. Asher had been hiding in Gwyn's room, of all places. That was how his spying in Highpoint had been conducted. Ludd Whitehill had never suspected a thing, but Asher had been within earshot of every war meeting the Whitehills conducted. He had heard of their suspicions that Gryff was already dead, discussions of how to assault Ironrath, and comparisons of military strengths. With that kind of information, the Whitehills never had a chance to win the Battle of Ironrath – Donald Trump knew Ludd was uninformed as to their true numbers, and lacked the men to take Ironrath. By convincing the Whitehills to assault Ironrath rather than wait them out in a siege, Ludd had hastened his own house's demise. The fact that Donald Trump had built a wall only made the Forrester victory all the more overwhelming.

"Why did you want war? We never prepared for war!" demanded Bernie. "But Trump sure as hell was ready. As soon as you saw what he built in Ironrath you should've negotiated peace!"

"No, I never wanted war, I wanted free and fair trade! Donald's dealings with King's Landings undercut Whitehill earnings and that is not acceptable!" Hillary rebutted.

"Isn't Donald's deal basically NAFTA?" replied Sanders. "A lot of Whitehills got unemployed."

"No, I never supported NAFTA, and no, I never called it 'the gold standard'." lied Hillary. "As soon as I am elected President, I am going to abolish NAFTA and other disastrous trade deals that have been taking jobs from our country."

Bernie Sanders turned to Hillary Clinton. "Why in the world did you kill Ludd Whitehill? I cannot, absolutely cannot, save you from the judgement of Rodrik Forrester."

"Better that she should die," interrupted Gwyn. "Your warmongering destroyed my house! And for that matter, how did you get back to Highpoint so quickly?"

"Oh well, it's a long, long story. I just gave the order to kill Donald Trump, and my, my, my. If it wasn't an overwhelming success! Not to harp over my good planning, of course, credit is given where it's due and uh we should thank the soldiers of House Whitehill, who um are unfortunately not present today..."

"That's because they're all dead! All because of you!" screamed Gwyn.

"Not the first time people she was in charge of died because of her," said Bernie thoughtfully, thinking of a certain US Libyan embassy.

"Now, now. We should all come down and give praise to God, for He has at least protected my life, and for that I am forever grateful."

"That's because you _ran with the last horse the Whitehills had!_ " shouted Rodrik Forrester, who had just come in with his Forrester delegation.

"Why didn't you call off the attack?" cried Gwyn. "We could have had peace without bloodshed!"

Hillary Clinton opened her mouth, as if to respond. Then her upper body started shaking vigorously and violently, back and forth. Her back curved at an unnatural angle, and the whites of her eyes turned black. Rocking and shaking, she was silent. For three seconds she looked like she was in a trance from a scene in the Exorcist.

Rodrik, Asher, and every other person in the Great Hall stared with horror.

Then her eyes turned back to normal, and she shook a couple more times, but deliberately.

"You should really try this cold chai we have back in the US!" Hillary laughed. Asher's lips formed a very clear "what the fuck".

"Calm down everybody, she was probably under sniper fire." said Bernie, the reference unnoticed by everyone present.

"Well you know Bernie, I was pretty, surprised to see you here. Because I don't remember you leaving the campaign trail." Hillary said. "I thought I'd just let you know that I won the primaries. But of course, there's always a slice of the pie for everyone, so we have one of the most progressive Democratic party platforms ever! Hurrah!"

"You didn't see me leave the United States?" Sanders questioned.

"Nope, but I did see you leave the Democratic convention. And boy oh boy, did you disappoint alot of Bernie Bros." Hillary smiled. "It's a pity your supporters wasted so much on your campaign. You never were going to win after New York."

"What's she talking about? What's New York?" demanded Asher. His older brother raised his hand, signalling everyone else in the room to let Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton speak.

"I don't know what you were thinking, you know. You joined the Democratic Party last year, I've been in here for over three decades! Debbie and Donna are my best friends, like, you seriously think they'll vote for you?" continued Hillary Clinton. "I had like, over a hundred newspapers endorsing me. The Guardian, CNN, MSN, the BBC, the New York Times, and uh, well, you name it, they endorsed me. Everyone loved me! And they called you a sell-out too, by the way."

Bernie Sanders grimaced.

"I just need to know one thing, Hillary."

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up, you hear me? Nobody talks to the first female president like that!" shrieked Clinton. She was suddenly consumed by aggression and rage. She stood up and drew herself to her full height, and locked eyes with Sanders.

"I've been fighting sexism all my damned life, and you can sure as hell bet I'm going to beat Donald like I beat you!" she shouted.

"By what? Rigging the election?" countered Sanders.

"You think it didn't work? I AM the first female Democratic nominee, like, ever!" Hillary started pacing around Bernie Sanders, like a predator stalking a prey. "And I've got the most sexist, bigoted, and xenophobic candidate ever to come this close to the Presidency as my opponent. How fighting that the first woman President of the United States of America should beat a man like this as her final opponent!"

"Did he ever leave the US?" asked Sanders, trying to get her back on topic.

"Of course not! He was tweeting all the way until two weeks before Nov 8. People say his campaign manager took his phone away from him, I say he's a big baby, and that's offensive to babies. Also, I say, that CNN, if they were here right now, would have published ten articles praising me by now for that line. I didn't even need my staffers to, you know, prepare it for me." replied Hillary, the last sentence bringing to mind the Podesta leaks.

"So when did you leave the US?" replied Sanders. At these words, Hillary Clinton frowned.

"A day or two... you remember James Comey?" she asked.

"Yes. I said, 'I'm sick of hearing of her damn emails'. I think I regret saying that now."

"Oh Bernie, going bust too easily. Thing is, uh, the thing is." A few seconds passed before Hillary seemed to remember what happened with her emails.

"You do not recall?" asked Sanders.

"I don't recall," pondered Hillary thoughtfully, remembering several trials wherein she said that exact line masterfully. Was she the attorney or the accused, though? "I don't recall, I don't... Oh! He starting accusing me again like 11 days before the election. Something about Huma and her ex-husband. We attacked him, of course. But a while later, like 3 days before the election, he cleared me of all charges."

"'FBI clears Clinton of all email-related charges'," said Bernie, "doesn't sound like a very convincing headline."

"Oh, you know, I'm sure it won't matter. They did give me the debate questions before the debate, by the way. Wikileaks revealed it and like, nobody thinks it's real, nobody cares! Nobody cares about Wall Street, or the transcripts, or my position on gay marriage. They're just going to vote for me by like, 10 percentage points. I'm going to win this in a landslide." replied Hillary.

"Okay. Just one last question. Will you stick to your promises, if elected President?" asked Bernie. Hillary's reaction was only to gleam slyly at him. Sanders grimly cast his gaze to his feet and shook his head.

"Enough. We've come to discuss peace terms." declared Rodrik. "Gwyn, as the last living Whitehill, it falls to you to discuss terms with me. House Forrester is looking for peace, and nothing more. What say you?"

Gwyn stared at him with a face twisted by pain. Asher noticed and put an arm around her shoulder. She gratefully clung onto him.

"House Whitehill is willing to make peace. Moreover, as Lady of Highpoint, I would think that this is the time for Asher and myself to marry, like we once planned to." Tears formed in her eyes, and Asher cuddled her closer. "It's just, I, I... I never envisioned, that, I'd have to lose... my whole..." she started blinking back the tears, but her body was shivering with emotion.

"My lord, may I point out that House Whitehill technically no longer exists?" Royland interrupted. He was greeted by dirty stares, but the old warrior continued anyway. "House Whitehill's inheritance laws doesn't allow for females to inherit, even if they are blood members of the family. By laws of conquest, Highpoint belongs to House Forrester."

You see? This despicable act of conquest is why you need feminism!" shrieked Hillary Clinton. "If the inheritance laws in this country were gender equal, I mean, had more gender equality, then Gwyn there could inherit Highpoint and you know, fight the war better than you men ever could!"

"That's wrong!" cried Bernie Sanders.

"Fuck you." Whispered Clinton. Back in the US of A CNN would be flooding dozens of articles in praise of that defiance of social norms. Women should never have to conform to social norms made by men! Maybe saying it a little louder would help?

"That is not right!" said Sanders. "Fuck you!" repeated Clinton, wagging a finger at him. A sudden blow to the back of her head and her chin suddenly finding the ground as its resting spot was all she got for her feminist activism.

"Asher, stop that." Shouted Bernie Sanders. "Everyone, stop! Doing what has been proven to fail is not change! Doing the tried, tested, and broken methods is not change! Change, is what happens when millions of young people come together and shout, 'This is wrong!' Then you will have change!

"Feminism shouldn't dictate that young women must follow the mistakes of their fathers. Feminism should empower young ladies like Gwyn to make her own choices as the last living Whitehill by blood. And if she chooses to make peace, then all the better!" A thunderous round of applause resonated throughout the room.

"I love this man," whispered Asher to Gwyn. "I thought you loved me?" she replied with a sly smile on her face.

"Asher, Gwyn." Rodrik began. "You two have told me that you wanted to marry each other." The two of them looked at Rodrik and nodded.

"As Lord of Ironrath, and the head of House Forrester, I give Asher my permission to marry you, Gwyn. I swear, by the old gods, that so long as I live, Highpoint will never be razed to the ground. We will put aside the quarrels of our ancestors, and House Forrester and House Whitehill will coexist. In peace."

"Thank you, Rodrik." Gwyn said gratefully. Asher merely gave his older brother his trademark smirk.

"Alright then, if you'll excuse me, then I'll be on my way. I've got an election to win," said Hillary Clinton. She had scarcely got up when, for the second time in a few days, she was greeted with the tip of a sword at her throat. This time it wasn't the short, curved blade of Asher, but a full one and a half metres of steel greatsword.

"I'm not done with you." growled Rodrik. Clinton sat back down grumpily.

"You sparked a war. You gave the order to murder Ser Donald Trump in the battle of Ironrath. You lied about all this to Ser Bernie Sanders, after fleeing the battle with your tail between your legs. You murdered the sitting ruler of House Whitehill, Ludd. I don't know who you are, but your time here is up.

"I, Rodrik of House Forrester, Lord of my house and Protector of the Ironwood Grove, hereby condemn you to die." Hillary Clinton pushed the blade at her throat to one side, sprang up at him and threw the same deadly cross that had killed Ludd. Rodrik merely took a step backwards and adjusted his sword, and the tip of his blade was back at Clinton's neck.

"Do you have any last words?" he asked. Hillary Clinton's face contorted with outrage, then anger, then just a steady steely look.

"Not to crude young men like you." She defiantly replied. In one graceful movement, Rodrik took a step forward with his lead foot, and put his weight behind his thrust. The greatsword cleanly pierced Hillary Clinton's neck. As soon as he withdrew it, blood spurted from her neck, all over the floor.

Hillary Clinton's last look was a steely gaze.

* * *

Everyone had left the body of Hillary Clinton in the Great Hall where she died. They went into the dining chamber where Bernie Sanders had first revealed himself, and spent time discussing both peace negotiations and the marriage of Asher and Gwyn. Also discussed was the compensation that the pitfighters would receive for their efforts in the Battle of Ironrath.

After favourable terms ("a gud deal", as Donald Trump would put it) had been reached, everyone returned to the Great Hall.

Only to find... well, that's rather deceiving. What was shocking was what _couldn't_ be found. Hillary Clinton had disappeared. Just like her emails.

"She... she died, didn't she?" Asher gulped, confused. "All the witchery I've seen in Essos does not compare to a dead woman disappearing."

"Trust me, you haven't seen the real deal where I come from. Like having skin as yellow as your hair." replied Bloodsong.

"It's the same thing that happened with that guy with the funny accent. Ser Wall-Builder. He just disappeared after the battle at Ironrath." added Beskha. Murmurs of agreement from Royland, Amaya, and the other pitfighters echoed around the chamber.

"By the old gods!" cried Gwyn. Her eyes stared at Rodrik. "Rodrik, you know the legend of Azor Ahai?" Rodrik paused, and inhaled deeply.

"It's said that Azor Ahai will plunge a sword into his wife, Nissa Nissa, and from there... isn't that exactly what you did?"

"What the fuck? My wife's Elaena, not this old hag, and last time I checked, she's perfectly alive!" replied Rodrik.

"Perhaps you should check again, m'lord." Said Royland. For the second time that day, Rodrik gave him a dirty look.

"We could send a raven to Ironrath, now." suggested Lady Forrester.

"Where did that body go? Was no one looking?" asked Rodrik, ignoring his mother.

"What, check and make sure a dead body doesn't start walking around, Westerosi? Now, that's a fine tale!" replied Amaya.

"But she _is_ gone," countered Asher. He leaned down and looked at the floor. "Even the blood's gone."

"Did I not stab her?" Rodrik wondered aloud. He looked at the people surrounding him. Everyone around him nodded. "And did I not pull out my bloody sword... oh, let's check if the sword... oh, that's right, I cleaned it."

"If the blood on the floor is gone, maybe it could go the other way around and the blood of that woman would be on the sword even if Rodrik cleaned it." suggested Beskha.

"That defies the second law of thermodynamics, it's not possible," Bernie Sanders interrupted.

"The what?" replied Beskha.

"Or he could just not have cleaned it very well." said Asher. Rodrik unsheathed his greatsword.

"Clean. Huh." He proclaimed. "Everyone, look around for the body."

A futile, several minute long search ensued. It became abundantly clear that Hillary Clinton was not in the Great Hall. The thing was, the lay-out of Highpoint was such that the Great Hall had only one entrance which doubled as an exit, and that led into the dining chamber where they had just been. There were no windows from which Clinton could have escaped, nor were there many places to hide. It was true. Hillary Clinton's body had disappeared. Just like Donald Trump's. The similarity was not lost on Bernie Sanders.

"I think we should stop searching." He said. "I wasn't sure before, when I was informed that Donald had died at the Battle of Ironrath and yet his body could not be found. But I am now."

"About what?" asked Lady Forrester.

"About how we would return home." Sanders replied. "Donald and Hillary were both killed by force, and their bodies disappeared soon after their deaths. I believe that this is no trick. They returned to our home, our own world, by means of teleportation. And this means that their bodies would disappear, since dying in Westeros means we will be alive back home. I think I'd like to take my leave soon."

A stunned silence ensued. Of all people, it was Gwyn who broke that silence.

"Ser Bernie Sanders. It was a pleasure meeting you. You will always have my deepest thanks for fighting for peace, and allowing my family name to survive. Even after... everything we've done to House Forrester." She ended her speech.

"I add my thanks to Gwyn's." Asher said. "More than four years ago, our love threatened our houses with war. Perhaps it was inevitable, that Houses Forrester and Whitehill should come to a war as bloody as this. But I never thought we'd still have a chance to marry, after all that."

Sanders gave a rare smile, and nodded. "We have much to mourn, many wounds to heal, and much to rebuild. As a saying around here goes, 'Winter is coming', and we have to be prepared for it. Let's start our preparations. Today."

* * *

Months later, Ironrath

Ironrath was healing.

The gate that had been broken was being rebuilt with thick Ironwood planks and supports. The last harvest before the arrival of winter had been stored, the smallfolk were being paid their wages once more. Royland Degore supervised drills by the soldiers under his command, barking orders to turn and march. Meanwhile Duncan Tuttle watched over the preparations for winter. From the thick coats, the oil for lighting a fire, to the food to last them several years - all this, he did dutifully.

His nephew Gared had become one of Royland's best fighters, and his ascent to distinction in combat had given the two squabbling men a topic of conversation that would not descend into disagreement. Speaking of fighters, the pitfighters led by Amaya, under the command of Asher Forrester, had since left Ironrath. Satisfied with their gold and the Whitehill blood they shed, they returned to Essos, where they would seek to offer their services to the highest bidder in their relentless lust for gold.

Bloodsong had not followed his comrades, if you could call them that, to Essos. Under the payroll of the Forresters, he began tutoring Talia in the arts of combat. For the past few months the adolescent girl had learned to use simpler weapons like a mace and spear, then advancing to the use of swords, glaives, and other unique weapons whose structure defied easy explanation.

Her brothers Ethan and Ryon would watch warily as their sister traded blows using wooden staffs with the pitfighter who had reportedly killed dozens of Whitehills by his own hand. Talia insisted on realistic combat, however, and Bloodsong relented. Her beautiful voice would sing less and less, and scream more and more. If not for the pitfighter's skill, his student may have been dealt crippling injuries.

Of the twins, Ethan was never a soldier. That had been Rodrik's and Asher's role in their family. After the battle of Ironrath, his views of war changed ever more dramatically. Ethan never forgot that he was briefly the Lord of Ironrath at the tender age of thirteen. He began disliking the politics that seemed to ensnare Westeros and his home, and the pivots of power that seldom rested on anything but military strength. He hated how he became distant to his twin sister Talia, watching her spend more time practising another sword move with Bloodsong rather than play in the Ironwood grove with him. Most of all, he detested how war necessitated suffering to prepare for it, suffering to endure it, and suffering when you survived it.

It was not quite the surprise then that when the new maester arrived, a man from the Vale, Ethan volunteered to work at his side as his apprentice. Whereas Talia was a fighter, Ethan was a healer, and made his intentions known that he wished to train as a maester as soon as he came of age.

Ryon Forrester was barely seven years old when his father died. It is said that children only start remembering the dates and places of their memories at seven years old. Before that, their memories are blurred and unclear. The youngest of the Forresters never understood why his father had to leave him when he was but five years old. He could barely keep up with Ethan and Talia in their games, much less so when they had their own business. Rodrik and Asher were married men now, and busy ruling their own holdfasts. His older sister Mira had been away in the South for so long, he barely recognised her from her strange Southern accents and manners. Worst of all, he had no friends of his own age in all of Ironrath.

For Ryon, watching the Whitehill carcasses being burnt was only the beginning. The young boy would become increasingly erratic, and savage. He began to irrationally shout and scream at no one in particular. He refused to eat his food, and sometimes vented his anger by punching the wall and subsequently regretting it. His mother was at a loss as to what to do with him, although she did consider sending him South to her relatives, where there were more young children he could play with.

Mira never liked King's Landing. She had only went South to work as Lady Margaery Tyrell's handmaiden. She had served her lady since her days in Highgarden, and followed her to King's Landing despite the dangers of the capital. There, Margaery's days of ruling the realm alongside King Joffrey, and then Tommen had tired her. Where the two of them would spend hours idly chatting while Mira tended to Margaery's hair or nails, Margaery would return to their room stressed from the politicking of court life.

The presence of Donald Trump had managed to tie House Forrester and House Tyrell closer together, with the Ironwood deals he had struck. That had been one of the zeniths of Mira's and Margaery's relationship, she felt. Handmaiden and Queen seemed to grow closer with every passing adversity – the move to King's Landing, the war, Trump's deals, Joffrey's death, and the Faith Militant's persecution had only brought them closer together. Mira still remembered the last words her lady had told her before the trial.

" _For all the trouble you've brought, I'm glad you came to me." Lady Margaery stood up from behind her desk, and walked to Mira. She looked into her eyes, with a smile in her eyes. The same smile that had charmed so many, that Mira had looked into when she first apprehensively appeared before Lady Margaery in Highgarden, so long ago._

" _I think of you as more than just my handmaiden." Margaery's smile was infectious. Mira smiled too, relieved to see her lady so calm. Margaery took Mira's hands in her own._

" _You're a friend." She said tenderly. "An ally even." Margaery never stopped smiling, never stopped her affection, never gave up on Mira. Mira opened her mouth, only to be unable to find her voice. She nearly teared up then and there._

" _You've always been so kind to me," Mira replied, her eyes glinting, "I think of you as a sister." Lady Margaery had never smiled more broadly before, or ever since. She replied with the synchronisation of a heartbeat, following another._

" _And you'll always have a sister's love from me." Said Lady Margaery soothingly. Her soft, brown eyes were as soothing as the bark of Ironwood, precious as soil to farmers, kind as the wooden walls of her room back in Ironrath. How Mira wished she could look into those eyes forever._

" _Thank you Lady Margaery." Mira kept looking her lady's eyes, unable to break her gaze..._

And then there had been an explosion at the chapel where they were holding the trial. Margaery, her brother Loras, the Faith Militant, and everyone who was there were dead. Killed by Cersei's store of wildfire. Mira had almost no time to grieve.

News quickly spread of Tommen Baratheon's suicide. The poor boy-king must have felt Margaery's death even more keenly than she had. But with both figures who had kept Cersei's power in check dead, Mira was in massive danger. She and Duncan, who had been assigned to King's Landing as both her guard and to supervise the Ironwood trade, fled even before Cersei was coronated.

And now she was home. Thousands of miles south, and now she had returned to her family, and winter. Mira Forrester was far more refined in the ways of court manners now. But she understood now that all negotiations are power plays, and with Cersei's actions, war had come once more. Just like it had, more than two years ago.

Except that this time, she would hold dear in her heart the memory of her late father... and the kind, beautiful, clever older sister that she never had.

Asher's and Gwyn's wedding had been a bittersweet affair. Torrhen's family, a young mother with two small children, had been in attendance. The young ones, two small boys with soft round cheeks, and gentle manners so unlike their father, had cried several times during the wedding. Asher felt obliged to console them, as Gwyn's husband, and their new uncle by marriage.

Gwyn, representing the last remaining adult Whitehill, had reconciled with Lady Forrester. Asher watched his mother and his beloved embrace each other, then exchange friendly conversation that mercifully strayed from the topic of the war. Both women had later come up to Asher remarking on their high opinions of each other – a rarity between women, Beskha had told him.

Their marriage had been done in two traditions: a composite of the old gods, and that of the Jewish people, of whom Sanders was a member. The Jewish ceremony was a nice addition to the brief old gods tradition, and Sanders seemed to revel in the position of being a rabbi. His mother, giving him away to Gwyn, had never looked happier. Elissa Forrester had beamed so brightly the creases on her face relaxed, and she looked ten years younger.

As Lord of Highpoint, Asher had declared that he will protect Highpoint and its people as well as Torrhen's family, until his death. He named Rodrik as his heir in case of his demise, and declared a cadet branch of the Forresters titled the Forresters of Highpoint, while the main branch will simply be the Forresters, or alternatively the Forresters of Ironrath.

Almost five years ago, he had been banished to Essos for loving Gwyn. Never to inherit Ironrath, never to own anything but the clothes he wore and the weapons he bore. Now, he was ruler of Highpoint, and lord of his own house.

But today, every last Forrester had gathered in Ironrath, including Asher, Beskha (who considered the Forresters her family) and Gwyn, who had willingly taken her husband's family name. They were there to hear a certain Bernie Sanders give his farewell speech. All in the keep knew that Sanders had planned to leave for some time, by means of committing suicide. Beskha had assisted him in concocting poison, and he had announced that this would be his final appearance before what he hoped would teleport him back to his own world.

Sanders sprightly jogged up to the podium that not very long ago had been occupied by a certain Donald J. Trump. As he walked, people cheered for this show of fitness. Little wonder the late Ludd Whitehill had asked for his secrets to good health.

"When I arrived in the North, many months back, I was surprised by the coldness of the weather, and the warmth of its people. I came into the North a stranger, and northerners took me in. You treated me with care. You found it in your hearts to fight for the welfare of a stranger! Now, we found it in our hearts to forgive House Whitehill for the wars of the past, and write a brighter future together!

"But our struggle has not ended. We have learned, through our experiences with war, hunger, and disease. We have learned that Northerners are stronger together! When all the North unites, there is none that can stand in their way! We need this spirit more than ever! Winter has come, and with them the White Walkers and their armies of the dead assault at the Wall!

"Our task is simple. We defend the Wall, just like we did here, in Ironrath! We defeat the White Walkers, and then we rebuild the North! The North has remembered seasons of spring and summer. It has endured and remembered seasons of winter, just like the one we face before us. It can again remember seasons of spring! When we united as one country, and Northmen and Northmen stand side by side defending the Wall, no force can defeat us!"

The crowd started clapping for Bernie, their eyes wet with hope, their cheeks glistening like dew on the leaves during a distant spring.

"We will go marching to the wall in the tens of thousands! And we will return from the wall, in the tens of thousands, victorious! And then we will rebuild our country, together! Rebuild the farms that have been burned! Rebuild the mills and holdfasts that have been razed! Reunite families torn apart by war, and make new beginnings with each other! Houses in the North will no longer scheme and plot, but stand as one behind one King, whose name is Stark! We will recover from the wars, and the winter!

"And when we do, we are going to spread the blessings that the old gods have bestowed upon us. No longer will a few rich lords monopolise the gold and wine of our realm. Common people will have warm homes, warm beds, food, and water! They will have access to maesters, and free, universal healthcare! They will have access to free education! They will have access to their lords and ladies like never before, and work closer with them to resolve the North's problems! Together!

Forresters everywhere started getting off their chairs and clapping. They started cheering with pride, joy, tears, mud and grime. They bathed in Sanders's words, and found themselves washed clean.

"We will not forget our veterans, who fought and bled for us! We will not forget the homeless, who lie freezing in the streets and countryside! We will not forget the hungry, who eat in between days! We will not forget the poor, who struggle to survive from day to day!

"We will not forget Lords like Rodrik and Asher and their father Gregor, who risked their very lives for a better future for their children! We will encourage more lords to act in the manner your own lord does, because this man is a fine example, of how a lord should act!"

The crowd let loose all self control and cheering with all their hearts and voices. In that cheer was the cry of a proud people who had seen their king shamed as a traitor, and killed, and his son betrayed and murdered. In their cry was the wail of a mother for her son, a daughter for her father, a boy for his brother, a wife for her husband, who had never come back from the South.

"And one last thing!" called out Bernie Sanders. The crowd quietened down before his words, but not before several enthusiastic woops and shrieks of "I love you Bernie!". Sanders smiled, but motioned for calm regardless.

"The Battle for Ironrath was an undisputed success. But the Battle of Winterfell wasn't. House Stark's army has been greatly weakened, in spite of their victory." The crowd started to whisper and speak amongst themselves at the last sentence.

"That's right! You have a new King in the North – Jon Snow, the White Wolf! And I formally endorse this young man as not just a new hope for the North, but the King you will need to lead you as Winter arrives!" The excitement reached fever pitch again as people began shouting.

"He will need your help! He needs brave soldiers! He needs loyal lords! But more importantly, he needs everyone, men and women and children, to rebuild the North! Together!"

The crowd screamed in excitement.

"Change never takes place at the top! It begins with you! Change never happens in King's Landing, but in the farms of the North! When tens of thousands of people come together and demand a fairer, more equal, and more transparent government! When we challenge the status quo and demand our rights be paid attention to! Then you will have change!"

"We will have free education in the North, for all!" the crowd screamed again. Ethan began scribbling in his notebook again.

"We will have universal, single-payer healthcare!" Gared Tuttle and his uncle Duncan began clapping and cheering.

"We will protect immigrants and their families!" Beskha and Asher shared a smile, and nodded to each other.

"We will support our veterans and uphold their rights to disability benefits!" Rodrik gave the scarred side of his face a tap, and recoiled from the pain. Elaena caught him and slapped his hand while giving him a _"what in the world are you doing?"_ look.

"We will rebuild a better future, and a better North, for all of us and not just a privileged few! " Every last Forrester was by now screaming and cheering, clapping and waving, and the overwhelming outburst of joy and hope was lit up by one chant.

"Iron from Ice! Iron from Ice! Iron from Ice!"

"Pass this down!" shouted Bernie over the jubilant cheering. "Tell the entire North how we can fight for equality! Tell them how we can fight for peace! Tell them how we can fight for our revolution, to bring about justice for all!"

"Iron from Ice! Iron from Ice! Iron from Ice!" screamed, whooped, shouted, cried the Forresters in unison.

"That is what our revolution is about, that is what our struggle is about! And with your help, we're going to win it here in the North! Thank you!" Sanders concluded and waved. And waved. He kept waving for so long. The Forresters were all on their feets, some hopping with joy, clapping and cheering with excitement for the future they believed in.

"Iron from Ice! Iron from Ice! Iron from Ice!"

Ironrath were rebuilding. The Ironwood forest was recovering. Winter was here, but whatever came, the Forresters would be ready.

* * *

The Ironwood grove

Bernie Sanders had to be separated from his adoring smallfolk fans by the newly minted Forrester soldiers, who were a combination of fresh troops raised after the war and the sellswords who had pledged their allegiance to Rodrik Forrester in exchange for protection.

He left quietly and quickly, the only thing he carried being a vial of strychnine. In accordance with his wishes, the Forresters' copy of "Our Revolution: A Future To Believe In" was signed and left in the Great Hall. Sanders departed for the Ironwood grove alone, or so he thought.

When there was nothing but darkness and quiet, and the sounds of footsteps were gone, Bernie stopped. He knelt beside a tree, and summoned the memories of his life in Westeros.

Watching his numbers in California falling short of Hillary Clinton's. Seeing his staffers, so many of them young millenials, break into tears. Watching Jane answer a call from his brother Larry about the future of his "revolution".

And then, it was daytime again. Gone were the streets of California, replaced by the unfamiliar barren landscapes of the North. Seeing Gwyn on a horse, and running to catch up with her. His first conversation with Gwyn, and her kindness that led him to being introduced to her father. Speaking to Ludd about the living conditions of Highpoints' smallfolk. Becoming disillusioned with the stubborn and cruel Whitehill lord.

Then, the day he met Donald Trump again. Giving that speech in front of Ludd, and then walking out of Highpoint. Donald revealing that Gryff was dead. Giving speech after speech to the Forresters, begging for peace. Convincing Rodrik to accept the sell-swords as his bannermen. Going to Highpoint again, pleading for peace. Meeting Hillary Clinton, and seeing her convince Ludd to go to war.

Watching as the Whitehill army marched from Highpoint. Discovering Asher in Gwyn's room. Hillary returning, alone. Hearing the results of the Battle of Ironrath from Rodrik.

 _So much had happened in so little time_ , Bernie Sanders thought. _Hillary never saw me leave the United States – I should be returning back to where I began this journey. In California._

And with that, the longest-serving independent Senator of the United States of America uncorked the vial, put it to his lips, and drank the strychnine.

All this, Ethan Forrester had watched, except until Sanders began to drink the strychnine. The line, " _And so the old man... died/still lived in spite of drinking poison_ " was scribbled on the very last page of his notebook. He waited about a minute or two, before poking his head out. The bush where Sanders had been showed no sign of the man, but Ethan's view was blocked.

The young Forrester came out behind the tree from which he was hiding, and cautiously approached. The bushes and boughs were thick, blocking his view. Ethan tiptoed and pushed on the bushes, until he parted one last bush and had a clear view of the exact place where Bernie Sanders had been drinking.

An unaccompanied vial and its cork rested on the ground.

* * *

 **AN: First of all, my apologies for taking so long to write this chapter. As you can see, it is extremely long – about as long as the rest of the fanfiction put together, in fact. I decided to wait after the election to write this chapter for continuity purposes. Originally I (alongside most of you, I expect) thought Clinton would win. The first ending that I planned reflected a Clinton election victory. But since this did not happen, the ending had to be changed slightly.**

 **This almost concludes "Donald Trump Edition: How Telltale's Game of Thrones Should Have Ended". Thank you so, so much for reading this fanfiction. I've seen my work in videos and websites and I am absolutely astounded. I am eternally grateful for your kind attention.**

 **Although I promised only 6 chapters, just as Telltale had only 6 episodes, there were too many characters and plotlines to adequately resolve in one chapter. The next one will be the epilogue. It will also have my final author's note, much of it an analysis of this fanfiction. See you soon!**


	7. Epilogue

Elissa Forrester

"A letter to my children, when they come of age.

To Ethan, Talia, and Ryon, who are growing up faster than this mother can imagine.

From the first time I met Donald Trump, I never liked the man. He was foreign – the clothes he wore, the accent he spoke, no one had ever encountered them before. Even his behaviour was foreign. He straight up lied to Duncan and myself about being famed around the smallfolk for making deals.

Northmen, at least, would see through his lies and execute him on the spot. But I was raised a child of the South, and in Ser Donald I saw unmatched political intrigue. The man would spew lie after lie, creating a fantasy world that he had us believe was real, and rumouring the real world to be illusions. And in an age where the Starks had been deposed of by their treacherous bannermen, I knew honour and honesty were not enough to see House Forrester survive Winter.

I apologise if I was not able to protect you from his influence. Perhaps it is better that I do not. Our house survives because we are strong. The cold of the North breeds a strong people. And I believe that you, my children, are strong too.

You have learned from Trump the art of the deal, how to channel the support of the angry and disgruntled majority into unstoppably shrewd and bold political moves. You have learnt from Sanders how to be compassionate, and fight for a future to believe in. You have even learnt what _not_ to do, with Hillary Clinton.

My dear children, I implore both the old gods and the Seven every night that you learn these lessons well.

Iron from Ice."

* * *

Gwyn Whitehill

 _From the diary of Gwyn Whitehill._

Hillary Clinton is a straight-faced liar. She lied about who she was, and where she came from. She would do anything for power. And she cost my _entire_ family their lives.

I don't know what possessed Father to listen to her about international relations, but it was a mistake! Her policies were a disaster!

I owe my life to Bernie Sanders. He turned around the devastating war that _that_ woman had brought about, and brought lasting peace to our houses. It's a dream come true. Marrying Asher. Forresters and Whitehills united as family. Living in Highpoint with Asher. Loving each other without the fear that we'd bring our families to war.

I just thought Father would have been there, to wish me well. I don't know if you'll ever approve, Father, but in my dearest memories, you're there. You smiled like you did before Mother died. You gave my hand in marriage to Asher – and wished us both all the best as Lord and Lady of Highpoint.

And I'll always remember everything Bernie told us. I'll tell the White Wolf too. I'll always feel the Bern.

* * *

Elaena Glenmore

You know Arthur, the first time I met Trump, I was worried that I was speaking to him rather than Rodrik. For a while, I thought the rumours that Rodrik survived the Red Wedding weren't true after all. Trump was good at rallying people, I'll give him that. He did build the wall, and won us the Battle of Ironrath.

But he was not the lord House Forrester needed. He was not the man whose shoulder you could lean on in the cold. He was not the leader people stood behind in winter. Donald Trump, wherever he came from, was more a Lannister than a Stark, except that he wouldn't pay his debts.

Rodrik, especially with Sanders's guidance, will be a better leader than Trump ever would. He will lead us through the winter. He will fight the White Walkers and win, win, and win. I believe in my husband. I believe in the future.

House Forrester and House Glenmore will survive. And then, we will create a future to believe in.

* * *

Gared Tuttle

Donald Trump did what we had to do to win. I know it wasn't pretty. But the Boltons won by some ugly methods too. I'd rather win ugly and live, than lose pretty and die. The Twins taught me that, Uncle.

To be honest, I was scared to death when he sent me to poke at twenty Whitehills with a stick, through Ironrath's gate. But he knew what he was doing. The man could tell the Whitehills wouldn't stop till they'd have our heads. I can stand behind such a man.

I think his only mistake was that he took too much control. Donald started out as the man Lady Forrester appointed to take care of all business. He ended up doing duties that only a lord ought to do. Bernie was better in that regard. Donald had great talk, but Bernie actually knew what a lord should do, and taught Rodrik how to do it. He didn't try to become lord himself.

He'll be missed, but so will the Don.

* * *

Rodrik Forrester

"A letter to my father. May the old gods read this to you.

I'm almost your age when you became Lord of Ironrath now. I remember your stories of how my grandfather, Thorren Forrester, seized the river valley from House Whitehill, and died at the Battle of the Trident fighting for Robert Baratheon.

I feel so old, yet so young, Father. So much responsibility. But I've since grown into it. I have a man to thank for that. His name is Bernie Sanders. If you taught me how to rule, he taught me what to rule for. Bernie Sanders inspired me to bring a revolution to the North. And it begins with the fight for peace, equality, and justice, for everyone. Smallfolk and lords alike.

So many people have walked in and out of my life. So many friends fell at the Twins, and during the war. So many allies betrayed us. But we Forresters are as strong as the ironwood. We will prevail, Father. An ally of ours, who goes by the name Trump, has vastly strengthened the defences of Ironrath. Thanks to his wall, we overcame the Whitehills, and we _will_ overcome winter too.

Iron from Ice.

Rodrik."

* * *

" _Sanders repeatedly_ _batted away questions about how his campaign would proceed in the all-but-certain event that his rival,_ _Hillary Clinton_ _, wins enough delegates Tuesday to claim the Democratic nomination."_

" _Sanders wasn't ready to say that the campaign against Donald Trump, at least, was now more about Hillary Clinton than about him."_

" _..._ _all eyes were on Mr. Sanders. Would he be generous or petulant? Would he let go or keep battling? At almost every turn, he was grudging toward Mrs. Clinton, passing up a chance to issue the kind of lengthy salute that many, in and out of the Democratic Party, had expected and craved._

"' _It's a blown opportunity to build bridges that are going to be extremely important in the fall,' said David Gergen, an adviser to four presidents, both Democratic and Republican. He worried that Mr. Sanders was becoming 'a grumpy old man.'"_

Bernie Sanders shook his head. He beat off the drowsiness that he had nearly succumbed to. Iron's wrath. Swords. Fighting. Forresters, forests, for... For what? What? What was he thinking? This was no time to be imagining a child's fighting fantasies. He roused himself to his feet, and took out his phone.

A few messages had popped up on the Bernie Sanders Staff group. His speech had reassured his staffers to a small extent. But it was undeniable that they had lost a tremendous amount of momentum from losing New York, and now that they seemed to have lost California... was the nomination out of reach?

 _Millions of people have campaigned, donated, and voted for us_ , he typed. _We are not going to let their sacrifices, hopes, and dreams go to waste. We're going to fight all the way until Philadelphia._ He tapped the send button, and paused.

Bernie Sanders felt a distinct recollection of words he had said to the working class people of some far-away land, whose houses were built of wood instead of stone. They had empty cellars, barren farms, rough roads. Their smiles as they cheered. Cheering what? What were they cheering?

Bernie closed his eyes and struggled to recall. The more he struggled, the more the words seemed to elude him. He opened his eyes and shook his head in disappointment. The messages from his staffers became more positive, to his relief. Somebody began talking about how cold it would be in Philadelphia. _Cold_ , wondered Bernie.

 _Ice._ The word suddenly came to his mind. _Ice. Ice... Iron!_

"Iron from Ice." Whispered Bernie Sanders involuntarily.

* * *

It was so quiet in Hillary Clinton's HQ that you could hear an email being deleted.

Hillary Clinton's campaign party, if you could call it that, was in very low spirits. They were not short of "spirits", but even drink couldn't overcome the depressing mood. Boxes of used wine bottles from Guinness were piled up so high and wide, the pile stood over six feet and took a minute to circle around. The senior staff had enclosed themselves with Hillary in a separate room, where a shouting match was taking place. Most of the staffers had retired to their homes, having spent the evening in states of anticipation, thrill, shock, disbelief, and finally fear. Others had joined the supporters at Javits Centre to cry, hug, and wail.

Hillary herself had been screaming in rage. She yelled profanities, screamed obscenities, pounded furniture, assaulted staff. She first threatened John Podesta, then Robbie Mook, both of whom were her campaign managers. Podesta left after Hillary took a vase and struck him in the head with it. He would head for Javits Centre, where the victory party was being held, and tell Clinton's supporters to go home. It had taken hours to calm her down. Bill Clinton's rebuke of her campaign's failure to reach out to the white working class in Pennsylvania, which had just been called for Trump, only made things worse.

"If we take Arizona, Michigan, and Wisconsin, we could still win!" shouted one staffer.

"If we don't take even one of them, we _lose_ ," retorted another. In one corner, Hillary had been sobbing on the phone so bitterly as to be incomprehensible. The caller, supposedly an old friend of hers, could barely make out Hillary blaming James Comey's emails for her defeat over the thrashing and tears. Now, she was resting by one corner, tear-stricken and defeated. The arguing over the remaining states, and whether they might all turn blue, at an impasse.

"Hillary, it's the President." A staffer crept close and extended the phone to Hillary from as far as he could. Hillary Clinton took the call, and placed the phone to her ear.

"Barack, I'm," Clinton shook her head and grimaced as she held back a sob. "Losing... to that deplorable bigot..."

"Hillary, you have to concede." said the President of the United States. In his white office and cushioned leather chair, Barack Obama shook his head despondently.

Clinton made her choice. She stood up, and grabbed a staffer who was wrangling with a colleague over the office phone.

"Just give me the phone." She bit back the tears as she spoke. "I'm calling him."

* * *

It was over. Decades of dreaming, one and a half years of campaigning, speeches, debates, and tweets had ended. The 2016 Presidential Election had concluded with a single sentence. Donald Trump grinned when he heard Hillary say, "I'm calling you to say that I concede." A few minutes later, the Associated Press projected that he had won Wisconsin, and thus won more than 270 delegates.

Now, the Donald was the President-elect of the United States of America. And he was relishing it. It had been a great night to be Donald Trump. Aside from a brief moment where he'd apparently fallen asleep and had to be coddled back to Trump Tower. But that had been an hour or so back, and his family and staff reassured him that he'd only been winning states in the brief period that he had been sleeping.

His VP, Mike Pence, finished his speech – having thanked his family, the American people, and most importantly, Trump himself.

"USA! USA! USA!" the crowd chanted. Trump nodded and waved.

"Thank you. Thank you very much." He said. The boisterous, victorious crowd finally calmed down.

"Sorry to keep you waiting!" He stretched his very small hands out magnanimously. The night sparkled with lights, red caps, Republican shirts, and the sound of victory. Some shred of his mind sparkled with the memory of selling wood, rallying smallfolk, building walls, walls. Building. Then it flashed out of mind and memory. There was something to build, and that was a better America. For all of _us._.. the billionaires at least.

"Complicated business, complicated business."

* * *

 **AN: Dear reader,**

 **This marks the conclusion of Donald Trump Edition: How Telltale's Game of Thrones should have ended. This note will cover analysis behind the purpose of this story, and its rather troubled development. Don't worry – no plot is written here, so if you skip this, you wouldn't miss a thing.**

 **I was first inspired to write this story as a reply to the titular game from Telltale, which in my opinion wrote itself into a corner. It started out well, but restricting choices, forcing protagonists into making naive decisions, and consistently underwhelming the military strength of the Forresters affected the plot.**

 **Worse, its final chapter left practically no conclusion at all. Cliff-hanger after cliff-hanger had been the staple of the story throughout all its six chapters. But the Forresters stood a very plausible chance of defending Ironrath. There is a good reason that walled strongholds are extremely difficult to take by assault – oftentimes even 3 to 1 ratios in favour of the attacker can be beaten. Telltale massively underappreciated this fact, screwing over the Forresters by allowing the Whitehills to teleport on top of their own wall, the Forresters somehow not using their wall to attempt any of the tactics mentioned in the previous chapter, or at least putting up some semblance of a fight.**

 **Even GRRM himself killed only one main character in the first book. In its first season, Telltale has killed 4 protagonists(Gregor, Ethan, Mira and Asher/Rodrik), countless minor characters like Lady Forrester, the traitor in between Royland and Duncan, and left the survivor between Asher and Rodrik close to death. The writer in me felt indignation, and picked up his pen.**

 **An appeal to indignation was common to many people this year, it appears. For the past year or so, Donald Trump has been laughed at for his presidential campaign. Yet it is unappreciated that he** _ **is**_ **winning. And that he is willing to do** _ **anything**_ **in order to win. That single quality("We're going to win and win and win so much, you'll get sick of it") qualifies him to lead the Forresters. Trump, more so than any other candidate, would do the underhanded deals that the Forresters had no guts to do. And those deals would be the ones that eventually saved the Forresters. That is ultimately why I chose the Don as my main character for the first few chapters.**

 **So, the story. When I began this fanfiction, the only thing I knew was that Trump was going to do funny things and piss of a lot of people, and he'd still leave the negotiation table on the winning end. Preferably with a Forrester victory at the end, of course.**

 **So I limited the exploration of Westeros a lot. It was the only way to maximise the interactions the characters would have with each other – by concentrating them around Ironrath. Telltale's story had four protagonists at any one time being followed. Throughout the series, it felt as if their numbers stifled their development. Gared was essentially put through a suicide mission at the Wall, then being asked to betray it – all for two bastard children with magical powers, and nothing else. Mira's role at King's Landing remained ambiguous throughout the series, but seeing her death, especially knowing her influential position as Lady Margaery's most favoured handmaiden, was disgusting. Morgryn betraying Mira came out of nowhere, and Margaery's lack of intervention was pathetic.**

 **My logic was that one chapter covered one episode, hence I ought to only have 6 chapters. I think I was reminded when I was writing Episode 4 that there had to be a sudden and stark turn of events in order to make the story reach its climax. There also had to be mechanisms to explain how Trump's teleportation worked, some form of opposition to Trump, and a more climatic final battle than the Battle of Ironrath in the game.**

 **This was when I introduced Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton into the story. Sanders and Clinton served different roles. Sanders represented an alternative vision for both the Forresters and Whitehills, and indeed all of the North. He contrasts Trump's dark dog-eat-dog worldview. Clinton is the warmonger – the one who catalyses the war between the Forresters and the Whitehills. Her many flaws as a presidential candidate is also the reason I used her character as I did. Much like in real life, Clinton ran for president/head advisor to the Whitehills for the sake of becoming president/power, not to institute change like Sanders. Ultimately, she only did what she did for her own self interest.**

 **The presence of all 3 main presidential candidates was untenable because with only 2 houses involved in the war, I'd sideline one candidate. Somebody would have to go. I chose Trump to die first, even though we know Sanders ended his campaign first, for character development. Trump hogging the spotlight in my writing was so pervasive, that all the other characters in the story were reduced to mere audience for his jokes. Trump's death also added to the tension between Forresters and Whitehills, and ultimately what started the Battle of Ironrath. Most importantly, Trump's death outlined the mechanism for teleporting between Westeros and the USA.**

 **The mechanism, in my mind, changed. I initially thought it would be the most significant moment of their campaigns being the second at which they were teleported away. No time passes in our world, however, while months and even years may pass in Westeros. Remember, I still thought Clinton would be president. So the ending for Sanders was the same, but Clinton would be texting her Wall Street donors as soon as she was confirmed to win the election, asking how low they wanted their corporate taxes to be. Trump would've been teleported away at the second presidential debate, right before he says to Clinton, "That's because you'd be in jail"(in response to her saying, "This is why Donald Trump should not be president of our country"). Sanders's moment was significant because California was the last hope he had of winning the Democratic primary. Clinton's moment was significant because nobody would trust her anymore after that moment(I don't recall whether this was before or after the Podesta leaks and Comey emails). Finally, Trump's moment was significant because this was his final insult, before the voters swept him in the election and voted Clinton.**

 **But since Trump ended up being president, changes were needed.**

 **Instead, the candidates were teleported at the brink of defeat, or Trump's case, victory. Trump was teleported during election night – during the brief period when it was reported that he had retired to his apartment with his wife to "take it in". Hillary was teleported a few days before the election, after the second Comey email clearing her of suspicions. Sanders's teleportation date does not change. All 3 candidates are addressed in the epilogue awhile after being teleported back, for storytelling purposes.**

 **It's at this stage that I address why Trump helped the Forresters.**

 **I personally see a great many parallels between the Forresters, and working class whites who voted for Trump in overwhelming numbers. The Forresters were a proud house in the North, respected for their only trade of making Ironwood shields and ships. They lived in rural areas, and worshipped the old gods.**

 **Over many years, the Forresters watched as their religion became a minority amongst men in favour of the Faith of the Seven. They watched as the Andals and their culture replaced that of the First Men. Then they were humiliated at the hands of the Lannisters, a rich house in the South, in the War of the Five Kings. They watched as their own lords were killed and replaced by the Boltons, brutal men whom they had to serve by duty, not out of their own wishes.**

 **While the parallels are not exact, they do exist. Trump's white working class voters have watched on as their views on religion became a minority in favour of neoliberal thinking. They watched as immigrants, Latinos, Hispanics, and blacks, and the neoliberals they supported replaced that of the white conservatives. Then they were humiliated at the hands of the Obama administration, whom they blamed for outsourcing jobs to China so that goods could be cheaper. Goods that would serve mostly liberal, high-income cities more than them.**

 **Finally, they watched as the conservative party they supported became not just conservative, but so far-right that it was willing to sacrifice its own voters for profit.**

 **And then came Donald Trump. Given what we know about the Forresters, and Trump's voters, I feel strongly that they would have supported him. Trump is actually left of Clinton on certain issues like unions and jobs. That was what the silent majority of his voters actually wanted, and thus why his support was as unshakeable as it was. Why else could he have made every possible blunder in the book, and still become President of the United States? Because his message was the right one. My belief was that his perceived concern for the common citizen was why he won so many votes.**

 **But he isn't the only one of his kind. Bernie Sanders experienced strong support from the same working class white group that won Trump the election. This leads me to conclude that he would also have won the support of the Forresters.**

 **Moreover, Sanders was** _ **the**_ **candidate best at rallying young people to his cause. As much as Game of Thrones is a story about politics, it is also about the younger generation of Starks and Northern lords taking over the reins from their fathers. Gwyn Whitehill offered the perfect opportunity to turn the conflict into a win-win situation. A Whitehill-Forresterpeace, sealed by Asher marrying Gwyn. While I know this is an ideal situation almost too far-fetched to exist in Westeros, I do think it is very plausible that Gwyn could have ended up in control of her House. If all the male Whitehills died in war against House Forrester (a very likely outcome), then Gwyn would be the natural successor. And she would have had no reason to continue the war.**

 **Moreover, in the game, Gwyn helps a gravely wounded Asher get up from where he has fallen in a secret cutscene (if you choose to call off the assassination attempt on Ludd's life). She says," Asher. We have to hurry. I saw what you were trying to do. They wouldn't listen to reason. We will overcome this." This strongly suggests that Gwyn is very much a dove.**

 **Sanders comes into this by being the one who brings peace between the two warring houses. Just like how he avoided trading attacks with Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump in real life, Sanders chooses to end conflict and focus on the larger picture of fighting the White Walkers. In my alternative reality, the Forresters(both Rodrik's and Asher's branches of the house) are well-prepared for winter. They have a new king in the North. And they are rebuilding.**

 **I think the Donald did a pretty good job in Westeros. Let's hope the same is true in our world.**

 **Iron from Ice,**

 **Lucky Sea**


End file.
